


Wildest Dreams Come True

by deanniker



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ella Enchanted Fusion, Alternate Universe - Magic, Angst with a Happy Ending, Curses, Epistolary, I gotta have that sweet sweet ella enchanted au, Intrigue, M/M, Melodrama, look I am but a simple idiot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:22:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28213107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deanniker/pseuds/deanniker
Summary: In truth this is but the latest bad day in a series of terrible ones: four days ago Yusuf was kidnapped and tied up and slung over the back of a horse, and the days since he has spent with a bag over his head as that horse carried him further and further away from his home. That was insulting enough, but being trussed up and left propped against the trunk of a tree without even a guard to stand over him is a new low.At least these bandits haven’t tried to slit his throat, and seem more interested in kidnapping than actual bodily harm. But flopping around trying to find something to cut his bonds with is a particular flavor of humiliation he never wishes to experience again, especially when he hears people coming back to the camp, and the only thing Yusuf can do to preserve his dignity is to flip onto his back.(An Ella Enchanted AU)Now with a wedding epilogue!
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 200
Kudos: 415





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by [this ask](https://sixth-light.tumblr.com/post/637370506957488128/for-the-fics-that-sound-like-something-you-would) on Sixthlight's blog, which I could not get out of my head. She very generously gave me the go ahead to take a crack on the idea of an Ella Enchanted AU. The greatest influence on this _is_ the book but I have also delved into whatever strikes my fancy to create a fic that is so indulgent...

Yusuf is not having a good day. 

In truth this is but the latest bad day in a series of terrible ones: four days ago Yusuf was kidnapped and tied up and slung over the back of a horse, and the days since he has spent with a bag over his head as that horse carried him further and further away from his home. That was insulting enough, but being trussed up and left propped against the trunk of a tree without even a guard to stand over him is a new low. 

At least these bandits haven’t tried to slit his throat, and seem more interested in kidnapping than actual bodily harm. But flopping around trying to find something to cut his bonds with is a particular flavor of humiliation he never wishes to experience again, especially when he hears people coming back to the camp, and the only thing he can do to preserve his dignity is to flip onto his back.

The thwarter of Yusuf’s escape attempt is one single, solitary man, stumbling into the midst of the camp, looking confused. He turns towards Yusuf, and all the blood drains from his face. “Prince Yusuf?”

Yusuf has no idea who this man is, and in light of that fact, tries to roll away into the brush. 

“Hold on,” the man says, taking a few strides forward, kneeling beside Yusuf and starting to slice through the ropes with his dagger. “I’ll get you out of here.”

“Hurry,” Yusuf urges. The stranger ducks his head and saws at the ropes a little more quickly. But not quickly enough - they both freeze when they hear people moving towards them through the trees. 

The man curses, and gets to his feet. “Don’t leave me,” Yusuf says, a little desperately, and by some miracle the man stops, and growls in frustration. 

“I’m just -” the man begins, but it’s too late - the bandits are pouring into the clearing. The stranger puts himself between Yusuf and his captors and draws his sword, though he doesn’t look happy about it. Even so, when they rush him he stands his ground, and Yusuf finds himself staring up at an all out bloody brawl while he lies supine on the ground.

Yusuf’s rescuer comes out on top. He fights dirty, kicking and spitting and biting, and slashing out with his sword, and before long the bandits are in a bloody pile at his feet. He turns towards Yusuf, panting, blood splashed against his face, and Yusuf does his best not to shrink back at the sight of him. “Are you all right?” he asks. 

“Yes,” he says. “Come get the rest of these ropes off me.”

The man crosses to him, sheathing his sword and pulling out his dagger again, resuming his work on the myriad ropes against Yusuf’s skin. Yusuf takes the time, now that he is not so panicked to observe him. He looks younger than Yusuf would have expected - around Yusuf’s age, maybe even a few years his junior. Yusuf still does not recognize him, though there is something vaguely familiar about him. Perhaps he has met him in passing before.

Once the last of the ropes are severed Yusuf rubs his wrists, and says: “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” the stranger says. “Well. Now you are free, and I must be on my way. Goodbye, Prince Yusuf.”

And with that, he turns around and begins walking away, as though he actually means to leave Yusuf behind in the woods. Yusuf scrambles to his feet. “Stop!” he says. “You can’t leave me here.”

The man halts. “Why not?” he asks.

“You have to - take me back to the palace.”

“I can’t,” the stranger says, voice strained. 

“I command you to take me back to the palace,” Yusuf says, putting on his best regal voice, the one that makes even his mother nod in approval. 

The man makes a strange noise in the back of his throat, almost a whimper. “I - I can’t -”

“And why can’t you?” Yusuf asks, haughtily. He hopes. 

“I - I have a wedding to get to,” the stranger says. “I can tell you how to get back -”

“Tell me,” Yusuf commands. 

The stranger does, very quickly. Yusuf doubts he is lying - there is far too much detail for him to be making it up as he goes along. When Yusuf asks for a map he provides it, and Yusuf looks at it keenly, backtracks the directions, and asks where they are right now. Without hesitating, the man points at the correct spot on the map, and Yusuf is forced to concede that he is being honest.

He is very strange, this man. Yusuf should really press him for more information on what, exactly, he was doing wandering through the woods far enough from the road to stumble across Yusuf, but he put himself in danger to free Yusuf from these bandits, could have left Yusuf in the clearing after freeing him and gone on his merry way. Yusuf does not know much about him, but the one thing he does know is that he cannot hope to safely traverse his apparently crime-riddled country on his own, and for better or for worse, this man is the only person within… this clearing that Yusuf can trust.

“You must escort me,” Yusuf says. 

“No,” the stranger says. “This wedding - I must go to it.”

Yusuf does not want to be the kind of king who keeps people from attending weddings. “Where is it?” he asks. 

The man points at the map. Yusuf stares. “You’re going to a wedding in  _ Giant Country? _ ” he asks. 

“It is very, very important that I go,” the stranger says. “After - after I will escort you to your palace. I swear it.”

Yusuf sighs. He too, had an invitation to a wedding in Giant Country this coming week, and has always wanted to visit. Yusuf's mother had dissuaded him from accepting, on the grounds that it was too close to Yusuf’s coronation, but Yusuf regretted declining it the moment he sent back his response - it is not every day that a royal wedding takes place. “When is this wedding?” he asks.

“Five days from now.” 

That’s funny - that’s the same day as the one Yusuf was invited to attend. But most of the reason that Yusuf had to decline was because he, as a visiting monarch, would not just be able to dash in and out - there would be meetings, and pomp and circumstance, and a very extended schedule. If they head back right away, Yusuf will have plenty of time to finish preparations for his own coronation. And Yusuf has always, always, wanted to visit Giant Country. “Very well,” he decides. “I will accompany you to your wedding, and then you will escort me safely home.”

“Fine,” the man snaps, though the sudden release of the tension in his shoulders takes a lot of the bite out of it.

That being decided, the man rifles through the bandit’s supplies, cleans his face cursorily, and sets off. 

“So,” Yusuf says, after a few minutes of awkward silence. “What’s your name?”

“Nicolò,” the stranger says. 

“And what is your full name?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Tell me.”

The man - Nicolò - sighs. “Nicolò di Genova.”

Yusuf blinks. “What - really? Di Genova’s boy?”

Nicolò puffs up. “I’m not a boy,” he says, hotly. 

“No,” Yusuf says hurriedly. “No, you’re not. Just - weren’t you -”

Nicolò doesn't say anything, which is answer enough. In his younger years, Yusuf had a larger circle of companions, and he vaguely remembers a quiet, solemn boy named Nicolò being among them. His mother had been a particular friend of Yusuf’s mother - when she died, Yusuf accompanied his mother to her funeral, and had spent most of the reception huddled under a willow tree with her son. That had been the most time Yusuf had spent with him, and it was no surprise that Nicolò had disappeared from his life shortly thereafter. Yusuf had not marked his departure.

Yusuf did not know the elder di Genova very well - he had died at around the same time as Yusuf’s father, so he had not had many dealings with him. Even though he does not have a clear memory of him, Yusuf can tell that Nicolò resembles his father very much, which explains why Yusuf thought he looked familiar. Yusuf, who has enough of both his mother and his father that he does not resemble either of them particularly strongly, feels a sudden pang of jealousy.

“Tell me, how did you become so skilled with a sword?” Yusuf asks. The boy he remembers had been more inclined to books and puzzles. 

“It was necessary for me to learn,” Nicolò says. 

“That’s not an answer,” Yusuf says, frustrated. 

Nicolò ignores him. 

Yusuf huffs and crosses his arms, though the pace they are moving at quickly makes that impossible for him to sustain. “Slow down,” he says. 

Nicolò huffs, but slows his pace. “The wedding is in five days, and for all we know there might be others looking for you. With you clomping all over these woods - “

“Clomping!”

"Trampling over everything in your path, leaving a trail a blind man could follow -”

“I am not trampling over anything,” Yusuf hisses. 

“And how would you know,  _ your highness _ ?” Nicolò asks, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. “Have you ever been outside the palace walls? When you aren’t being captured, that is?”

That is blatantly unfair. Yes, Yusuf was captured by bandits. Yes. he has not acquitted himself as well post-capture as he would like. But Yusuf has dedicated his entire life to kingly pursuits - he may be more inclined to spin poetry and a brush than a blade, but he can hold his own in a fight and he  _ has not been trampling over anything.  _

As has been established, Yusuf is having a particularly difficult day - he blames that for what he does next, which is leaping at Nicolò and tackling him to the ground. 

Nicolò snarls, but he can’t draw his sword at this angle - he draws his dagger but Yusuf has spent most of his life learning how to anticipate attacks like these, and grasps and twists Nicolò’s wrist until he drops the blade. Yusuf plants his knees on Nicolò’s stomach and slams his shoulders back into the ground. This is normally when whatever guards he has would stride forth to take care of the problem, but in the absence of them he says: “Yield.”

Nicolò averts his gaze. “I yield,” he says, quietly. 

Yusuf doesn't let him up just yet. “We will continue, at a reasonable pace, with no more smart remarks.”

Nicolò nods. Yusuf lets him get to his feet, and they continue in silence. 

He sets a fast pace. Yusuf tries not to hate him.

***

The next morning, Yusuf peers over his shoulder while Nicolò is consulting his map: Yusuf may have no choice but to trust him but that does not mean he is fool enough to trust him blindly. He has a map, and a compass, though the compass seems broken. It’s pointed in a direction that Yusuf knows isn’t north - but when Nicolò sets it down on the ground the needle spins around and around and around. “Is that a  _ magic  _ compass?” Yusuf asks, incredulously. 

Nicolò snatches it up and snaps it shut, holding it close to his chest. “It’s not,” he says, and after a few moments he opens it up and shows it to Yusuf - the needle is now pointing steadily in what Yusuf can tell from the light through the trees is north. 

“Ah!” Yusuf says. “Don’t think you can trick me. Put it back down.”

Nicolò growls but does it, and the needle immediately starts spinning as it had been before. 

“Is it fairy magic?” Yusuf asks. “It was pointing in another direction before. How does it work?”

“That’s none of your business,” Nicolò says, snatching it up once again. “It’s mine, not yours. I don’t have to tell you.”

He’s flushed, a little, and Yusuf can understand why. Things of fairy-make are incredibly valuable. The bandits that took Yusuf were likely after a ransom, and if they were given the choice between taking Yusuf and taking that compass they would probably take the compass. For a moment Yusuf toys with the idea that Nicolò stole it, and this is why he was wandering through the woods haphazardly enough to stumble across Yusuf - but he’s not holding it like a possession. He’s cradling like a cherished keepsake.

“I’m not going to take it from you,” Yusuf says gently. “I’m just curious. Would you tell me how it works?”

Nicolò considers him, and opens it back up slowly. “It points to what you want it to,” he says. “So I can tell it to point north, or I can tell it to point to the wedding.” And with that, the little needle swings in the opposite direction. 

Yusuf laughs with delight. “That’s so clever!”

“I would have thought you would be used to things like this,” Nicolò says. 

“We do have some at the palace, yes,” Yusuf allows. “But they are mostly ornamental. Nothing useful like that.”

“It is not as useful as you might think,” Nicolò says. He snaps it closed and stands, and they set out on their way. 

“What do you mean?” Yusuf asks. “Can’t you use it to find anything?”

“Well, like most gifts from the fairies it is extremely temperamental. If I don’t concentrate it could - pick up on some other desire I have. And point me to that.”

“Oh, I see.” Yusuf says. “If you were very hungry…”

“Exactly!” Nicolò says, and launches into an amusing story about how he asked the compass to point to the nearest food, and it had directed him to a band of ogres. He’s an engaging storyteller, and their travel is far more pleasant for it, and Yusuf finds himself spinning out their conversation. 

“But surely it’s just a matter of specificity,” Yusuf says. “If you had asked to be pointed to the nearest bakery…”

“Well yes, I could have done that. But even then, how can I be sure that the compass is actually pointing me to what is nearest? Perhaps it’s nearest as the crow flies, but on the other side of a very deep ravine.” 

“I see,” Yusuf says. 

“At the end of the day it is still just a compass,” Nicolò says. “It can tell you where you need to end up, but you still have to find a way to get there.”

“Still, you could use it to find something close to you,” Yusuf points out. 

“Yes,” Nicolò says. He looks around at the trees, and then leans forward as though he is about to impart a great secret. “I mostly use it to find things I’ve misplaced.”

Yusuf laughs, and Nicolò shoots him a small, pleased smile, as though that was his intention.

He is quite handsome, when he smiles. 

Yusuf can already hear Booker’s voice in his ear, chiding him: you’re going to lust after the first man you stumble across just because he risked his life to rescue you?

Lykon would egg him on shamelessly.

Yusuf splits the difference and smiles back at him. “Why is it that I have not seen you at court?” he asks. “You are the head of the di Genova estate, are you not? I should have seen you at the end of each year, at least.”

In an instant, Nicolò’s smile falls and he turns his head fully back to the path in front of them. “You will have seen my stepmother,” he says, tersely. 

“Why don’t you come?” Yusuf asks. “Is it too large or too small to your taste? Tell me honestly - at the moment it is my mother’s court, I will not take offense.”

“It is not... “ Nicolò seems to struggle with words for a moment, before he says, very quickly: “I am not head of the di Genova estate.”

Yusuf frowns. “That can’t be right.” He doesn't memorize the family tree of  _ every _ noble house in his lands, but the di Genovas live close enough to the palace that there is a reasonable chance of bumping into them on local excursions, so Yusuf knows that there is: one son from di Genova’s first marriage, and the newly widowed second wife along with her two daughters from a previous marriage. 

“Before he died my father made it so that all our lands and titles passed to my stepmother, instead of myself.”

“But, why?” Yusuf asks, genuinely confused. Such a thing is not  _ entirely _ unheard of - the practice originated when a father discovered his biological son was, to put it mildly - homicidal. Nicolò - well, he does carry a sword and is practiced in using it, but he doesn’t seem cruel. Di Genova died a few years ago now, which meant he would have amended his will when Nicolò was still a boy, or a very young man, and Yusuf should have heard a reason by now, if it was compelling.

“It was decided it would be best,” Nicolò says. “My father did consult me, before you ask - I told him I agreed with the decision.”

“But -“

“It’s none of your business,” Nicolò snaps. 

“Well. I suppose that’s true.” Yusuf says. 

Nicolò starts walking faster, and Yusuf curses himself for bringing an end to the easy mood. It was far more pleasant when they weren’t arguing. “Nicolò, wait, I’m sorry. You’re right - it is none of my business. I am just curious by nature.”

Nicolò pauses. “I am starting to understand that,” he says ruefully. “I apologize, you’re right to be curious. I… wish that things did not have to be the way they are.” 

“Do they have to be?” Yusuf asks. “You could bring it to petition. I can’t guarantee anything except for that we would hear it, but -“

Nicolò halts and looks at him. “That is very kind of you,” he says. “But I’m afraid there is no point. Not at the moment.”

“Alright,” Yusuf says. “I won’t pry any further.”

“Thank you,” Nicolò says. “You know, you are not at all what I would have expected.”

“Oh?” Yusuf asks. “And how were you expecting me to be? Vain? Insipid? Less handsome?”

Nicolò blinks at him, stammers: “that’s not-'' and looks away very quickly, a blush staining his cheeks, and oh - that’s very interesting. The Booker in Yusuf's mind drops his head into his hands. The Lykon in his mind cheers. Yusuf splits the difference between them again and smiles. 

“You’re very considerate,” Nicolò says. 

“Do I have a reputation for being otherwise?” Yusuf asks, thinking back to the times that he has left the palace. He always tries to be gracious, but there are times, in the early morning especially, when he might not have been on his best behaviour.

“No,” Nicolò says. “It is just - you could force me to bring you back to the palace, you know. And I do not see why you wouldn’t.”

“To tell you the truth, I have always wanted to visit Giant Country,” Yusuf says. “My father and I were planning a trip. But.”

Nicolò nods. “Do you miss him?”

“Very much,” Yusuf says. “And you? Do you miss your father? And your mother?”

Nicolò nods rapidly. 

They don’t speak much for the rest of the day. But that night there’s a cold snap, and Yusuf wakes, shivering. Yusuf had not been taken with his wardrobe, and he had not thought to pilfer from the dead bandits. At least Nicolò is not in better shape - he does have a cloak, but it does not seem to be doing him much good - when Yusuf wakes he is crouched in front of a pile of sticks, trying to light them. 

“I thought you didn’t want to light a fire, in case I was being pursued?” Yusuf asks. 

“To be honest, I would rather part ways with your highly prized royal person than freeze to death in the wilderness,” Nicolò grits out. 

Yusuf, despite his general misery, laughs. “I don’t think I disagree.” Nicolò finally gets the sparks to catch, and wraps his cloak around himself while he feeds the small fire. “You’re going to keep that cloak to yourself?” Yusuf asks. 

“One of us has to keep the use of our hands,” Nicolò says. 

Yusuf shuffles closer to the fire. It’s still quite small, but it’s still putting off enough heat that Yusuf feels fractionally warmer. “Come lay next to me,” Yusuf says. “We’ll share body heat.”

Nicolò tenses, and he ducks his head. 

“Are you so proud you would rather freeze to death?”

“No,” Nicolò says. His voice sounds strange, but he says, “Very well,” and undoes his cloak to slip it over the both of them before he lays down beside Yusuf, facing each other. 

Yusuf feels warmer already, and not just because Nicolò’s handsome face is a few inches from his own. “Turn around,” he directs, sleepily. “We can be closer that way.” Nicolò makes a small noise in the back of his throat, but shuffles obligingly. Yusuf slots in behind him, slinging a hand over his middle and tugging him back into his chest. “There,” Yusuf says. Already he can feel warmth pooling in the space between their bodies. “Better.”

***

The next morning, Yusuf wakes from what is the best night of sleep he has had in a while - not surprising, since with the exception of the night before, he had been hogtied and anxious about his immediate future. He is, to his embarrassment, nuzzling into the broad expanse of Nicolò’s back. He does not smell particularly good, but that did not make a difference to his sleeping self, and he does not mind as much as he should awake, either. Nicolò is warm - he is holding onto Yusuf’s arm with both hands, and it is  _ nice. _ Beyond the confines of the cloak, Yusuf can tell that the morning frost is still sharp in the air, so he allows himself the indulgence for a while. 

Nicolò stirs after a few more moments, at first languid and sleepy - and then he freezes, clutches Yusuf’s arm tighter for a moment before scrambling away. 

Cold air rushes in, and Yusuf flinches. “Why?” he moans.

Nicolò disappears into the woods for a moment, perhaps to relieve himself, and by the time he returns Yusuf has pulled himself into a sitting position. He smiles at Nicolò when he returns, but Nicolò doesn’t smile back, turning to rifle through his bag with his lips pressed tightly together. He hands Yusuf some food brusquely, and Yusuf takes it, confused by his cold behavior. 

“Nicolò?” he asks. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Nicolò says sharply. He bites into his own food savagely, belying his words. 

After a few minutes of Nicolò’s angry chewing, Yusuf loses patience. “Enough of this,” he says. “If I have offended you in some way tell me - otherwise do not treat me so rudely.”

Nicolò ducks his head, and Yusuf huffs and turns back to his own food. They start on their way in silence, but after a few minutes of petulant plodding Nicolò sighs. “I’m sorry,” he offers. “It has been - a long time. Since I slept so close to someone, and I don’t like that I was made to.”

“You could have told me,” Yusuf says. “You do not have to act like a petulant child, after it is over.”

Nicolò puffs up a bit, but when Yusuf looks at him skeptically, he deflates. “I’m sorry,” he says again. 

Yusuf stops. “Listen,” he says. “I know I am a prince, and that that can make it difficult to think you can say no to me, but if you truly do not want to do something you need only tell me.”

“Oh,” Nicolò says. 

“Perhaps I am to blame,” Yusuf muses. “I am so used to people already knowing that, I did not think I had to tell you. My friends do not hesitate to chide me when I cross a line.”

“No!” Nicolò says hurriedly. “No, I -” he cuts himself off, and they walk in silence for a while. “I feel foolish,” he says eventually. “You’ve been very courteous, and - I should have said something.”

“I am happy to put it behind us,” Yusuf tells him. Nicolò nods. 

It is not as cold as the night before, but still chilly enough that Yusuf prepares himself for a very uncomfortable series of hours, but Nicolò settles down beside him. “We don’t have to -” Yusuf says, and stops abruptly, when Nicolò puts his back to him and grasps Yusuf’s hand to bring it around his waist. “Nicolò?”

Nicolò tucks his hand close to his chest. “I  _ am  _ cold,” he says. “And It is different. Knowing that you do not intend to - to use me against my will.”

Yusuf tightens his grip, involuntarily. “Never,” he says emphatically. “Never.”

***

The next day begins much more pleasantly. Nicolò is already awake, when Yusuf stirs, kneeling in front of a fire. He hands Yusuf a cup of tea when he sits up. Yusuf takes it gratefully - it doesn’t taste like much, but it is warm. “Aren’t you having any?” he asks. 

Nicolò shakes his head. “I only have the one cup.”

“Nicolò,” Yusuf chides.

Nicolò smiles. “”I’ll make myself another cup after you finish.”

“Alright,” Yusuf says.

They speak again as they travel - Nicolò, as it turns around, reads extensively. Yusuf does as well, though he tends to pick poetry more often than prose, but they’ve read enough of the same titles to pass the day discussing them. 

“I never said I didn’t like it,” Yusuf protests. “I just don’t understand why you like it so much.”

“The idea that love can conquer all - can succeed against all odds -”

“Love takes work,” Yusuf says. “I think you are far too intelligent to think that the problems they have would be solved just because they can say the words.”

“I am flattered that you think so highly of my intelligence,” Nicolò says, grinning. “But what are stories for, if not to indulge in a simple fantasy?”

Yusuf hums. “I suppose that’s true -”

“Quiet,” Nicolò says suddenly. 

“What is it?” Yusuf asks. 

Nicolò glances around at the woods, and grasps the hilt of his sword. Yusuf should really have taken a weapon from the bandits. He does not like being empty handed.

Nicolò steps in front of him and picks his way carefully through the forest. 

He stops so abruptly that Yusuf runs into him. “Hello there,” Nicolò says, to someone who is not Yusuf. “Are you lost?”

“No!”

Yusuf peers around Nicolò’s frame, and sees a small child, shrinking against a tree. Nicolò kneels down hastily. “Wonderful!” Nicolò says. “In that case, my friend and I are looking for a town in which to buy supplies. Can you lead us to your home?”

“Well…” the child says. “Well, I don’t - exactly -”

“Hmm,” Nicolò says. “That’s alright. Do you remember how you got here?”

“I… was by the river,” the child says. “But I don’t -”

“Well, how about this?” Nicolò says. “We will help you find the river, and then you can lead us to your village, so we can resupply?”

“All - alright,” the child says. 

“Thank you,” Nicolò says. “What is your name?” 

“Alana.”

“Thank you, Alana.” Nicolò says. He stands, and takes her hand. “Now, let’s find your river.” He pulls out his compass, and looks down at it. He closes it, and glances back at Yusuf, winking slightly. As if Yusuf was not hopelessly enamored enough before. “Maybe - maybe it’s this way.”

Nicolò wanders around the forest, hemming and hawing, saying things like: “My, this forest all looks the same, doesn’t it,” and “I really wouldn’t blame anyone for becoming lost around here.”

Eventually they find the river, and Alana takes over. Nicolò consults his compass every once in a while, but for the most part lets himself be tugged along. When the trees begin to get a bit sparser, he turns to Yusuf and murmurs, out of the side of his mouth: “Try to stay inconspicuous. I’ll be back as quick as I can.”

Yusuf hangs back as Alana starts running for the town, tugging Nicolò behind her. A young man - an older brother, perhaps, runs to meet them, grasping Alana to him tightly, before pulling Nicolò into an embrace. Nicolò breaks away from him, shaking his head. He smooths a hand over Alana’s hair, before heading back to Yusuf. 

“You went out of your way to bring her home, but not me?” Yusuf asks. 

“Perhaps I liked her more than I do you,” Nicolò says, slyly. 

“Somehow I think that is not the case,” Yusuf says. 

“Hmm,” Nicolò hums. “You’ve caught me.”

“I hope so,” Yusuf says. So he has a crush - so Nicolò probably knows. So what?

Nicolò smiles, and ducks his head. Later, when they bed down for the night - it is not so cold, so Nicolò is not a lovely warm presence along Yusuf’s side - Nicolò says, haltingly: “I have a few friends nearby. I wanted to visit them, would you mind accompanying me? It is not too far out of our way.”

“Not at all,” Yusuf says, surprised and quietly pleased. Something tender unfurls in his chest, thinking of being introduced to Nicolò’s friends. He knows, he  _ knows,  _ that this is moving far faster than he should let it - but Nicolò has proven himself to be clever, and kind, and skilled with a blade - it would take a far better man than Yusuf not to be drawn to him. Yusuf yawns loudly, and makes a show of turning over, and stretches out his hand into the space between them as though that was not his intention all along. Nicolò, likewise, shifts restlessly, and reaches out with his own hand. He hooks his little finger over Yusuf’s. 

“Good night, Nicolò,” Yusuf says, already caught in a lazy fantasy of presenting Nicolò to his mother and Booker and Lykon. 

“Good night,” Nicolò says. “Yusuf.”


	2. Chapter 2

“So, are you going to tell me why you are friends with people who live in the middle of nowhere in the woods?” Yusuf asks. He does not mean to sound so petulant - it is just that the brambles Nicolò has them strolling through are not conducive to maintaining a good mood.

“I actually don’t know,” Nicolò says. “It’s been a year or so since I saw them, and they were living in the city then. Being around others… helps.”

“Helps what?” Yusuf asks. 

“Let’s just say it is sometimes difficult for them to be happy.”

“That’s ominous.” 

“They are wonderful people,” Nicolò assures him. “And they will be glad to see me, even if it is one of their bad days.” He consults his compass again - for all that he claims it isn’t that useful it seems to come in handy quite often. “I think we are getting close.”

After a few more minutes Yusuf begins to hear something - a repetitive thudding sound. “Ah!” Nicolò says, eyes lighting up. “Andromache?” he calls. “It’s me! Put down your axe.”

“When you show your face, not before,” a woman calls back. 

Nicolò rolls his eyes, and pushes through another set of brambles. Yusuf follows and breaks into the clearing just in time to see a woman grin and bury her very sharp and wicked looking axe in a stump. “Nicolò!” She says, and strides forward, enveloping Nicolò in her arms. Nicolò clutches her tightly and buries his face in her neck. She is not what Yusuf expected, when Nicolò said he had friends nearby - she seems closer to Yusuf’s mother in age than Yusuf, and there is a hardness in her, even as she holds Nicolò tenderly.

Nicolò draws back, looking around. “Where -” and then he grasps Andromache’s shoulders tightly. “Where is Quỳnh?”

Andromache laughs. “She’s down by the river, catching fish.”

“Really?” Nicolò asks. He grasps for Andromache’s hands. “Really?”

“Yes!” Andromache says. “Quỳnh!” she shouts. “Come see who has come to visit us!”

In a few moments, another woman bursts onto the scene. “Nicolò!” she cries, dropping her basket. “Nicolò, Nicolò!” She too, embraces him, though she pulls away and grasps his hands, leading him in a dance around the clearing. 

Nicolò lets himself be tugged along for a moment, but draws them both to a stop. “It’s… over?”

“Yes,” Quỳnh says. 

“Yes!” Andromache says, grinning. She presses a kiss to Quỳnh’s temple.

Quỳnh and Andromache bring Nicolò into their little cottage, and allow Yusuf to trail along behind them. He retreats to the kitchen, watching them take their place on the small sofa. Nicolò draws a stool up before them and takes one of their hands in each of his. “Is it true? Is it really over?” he asks. His eyes are shining. Yusuf averts his eyes. 

“It’s true,” Quỳnh says. 

Nicolò exhales shakily and draws their hands up and kisses the back of each of their knuckles in turn. “I am… so happy for you,” he murmurs. “So happy. How did it happen?”

“We were sailing,” Andromache says. “And there was a sudden storm. Quỳnh was swept overboard.”

“I thought I would die, from the pain of being separated,” Quỳnh says. “And then, I thought - no. No, if I die, it will be from the wind, or the waves, or the current.”

“She was braver than I could ever be,” Andromache says.

“You would have done the same, my heart,” Quỳnh says. 

“Perhaps. But it was you who broke the curse, and you know better than let me forget it.”

“Curse!” Yusuf says, shocked into speaking out loud. Quỳnh and Andromache startle, like they had forgotten he was there. 

“We were given a fairy gift at our wedding, to never be apart,” Quỳnh says. 

At first that doesn’t sound that bad, but as he spins out the implications Yusuf begins to feel horrified. “That sounds like it would be very difficult.”

“It was,” Andromache says. 

“The longest ten years of my life,” Quỳnh says.

“I -” Nicolò says, and cuts himself off, pulling their hands up to his lips again. “Is it really true?” he breathes.

“Oh, Nico,” Andromache says, running a hand through his hair. 

Yusuf shouldn’t be here for such a private moment. He gets to his feet. “May I write a letter?” he asks. “I would like to send word to my family, that I am alright.”

“Of course,” Quỳnh says, standing. “Let me get you some paper.”

Yusuf takes the paper and writes a letter to his mother, sitting outside on Andromache’s stump. After a while, Nicolò comes out, flanked on either side by Quỳnh and Andromache. “Please be careful,” Quỳnh says. “And - I’m sorry, Nicolò. But try not to get your hopes up.”

Nicolò nods.

Yusuf steps up and holds out his letter. “We’ll see that it arrives safely,” Andromache says, and looks at the address and blanches. 

“Please come see us when you head back, Nicolò” Quỳnh says. 

“Are you alright?” Yusuf asks, when Nicolò remains pensieve for the next few minutes.

“Yes,” Nicolò says, and he turns his head to gift Yusuf with a smile. “I suppose I am shocked to know that their curse is lifted. I… never really thought it could be.”

“You’ve known them a long time?” Yusuf asks. 

“Perhaps... close to five years now,” Nicolò says, and Yusuf finds that number surprisingly low, considering how free they were with their affection, how intimately they touched each other. Then again, he has only known Nicolò for a handful of days, and last night they had practically held hands as they fell asleep. Yusuf had been assuming that he was special, but - perhaps that is not the case. 

In an effort to discover whether Nicolò is actually interested in him, or whether he has only been responding to Yusuf’s less than subtle flirtations out of politeness, or for his own amusement to pass the time, or some other reason, Yusuf tries to keep his appreciation to himself. Nicolò makes it difficult, as he puts himself in front of Yusuf to cut through brambles and holds branches out of Yusuf’s way as they make their way through the forest. 

Nicolò does engage him in conversation, and seems genuinely interested in learning about Yusuf’s life, listening intently to Yusuf's responses, though his manner never extends beyond friendly. Of course he could simply be shy, or better able to flirt in response than initiate it himself. Yusuf sighs, and kicks a rock in his path dispiritedly. This is not the worst case, of course, but it would have been nice to be sure that Yusuf has not been making a complete fool of himself.

If Booker were here, he would look very put upon and say that Yusuf should remain  _ only  _ friendly with Nicolò until given some sort of sign that his advances would be reciprocated, and that if Yusuf were truly incapable of reining himself in he might as well just  _ ask.  _ Lykon on the other hand would point out that the point of flirting is to gauge interest, and that Yusuf has clearly just not been doing a good enough job of it.

Yusuf settles for spinning out elaborate stories in an attempt to get Nicolò to laugh. He is either not very successful, or Nicolò does not laugh out loud very often - the most he gives in response to Yusuf is an amused sort of hum.

In the end they stop and make camp. Nicolò cooks the meat that Andromache and Quỳnh gave to him, and Yusuf does his best not to stare at the way Nicolò is lit by the flickering light. Once they are finished eating Yusuf opens his mouth to compliment the food but what comes out is: “You must let me sketch you.”

Nicolò frowns a little bit, and asks, “Why?”

Yusuf still has some paper given to him by Quỳnh, and his charcoal pencils. “Your profile,” he says, digging them out of his shirt. “In this light it’s…”

“What?” Nicolò asks. 

“Arresting,” Yusuf says. “It would be a crime not to put it down.”

The corner of Nicolò’s mouth twitches up. “Very well,” he says. “You like to sketch?”

“Yes,” Yusuf says. “Particularly when I have such an entrancing subject.”

“Entrancing?” Nicolò asks, smiling slightly. “I thought I was arresting?”

And there it is, there is no mistaking it - Nicolò is flirting. Yusuf grins, and tries to get the bridge of Nicolò’s nose right, and says: “What adjective would you prefer? I am happy to give you any one that you desire.”

“How gallant. What if I asked you to call me… plain?”

Yusuf mock-gasps. “You would expect me to lie? I hoped you thought better of me than that, Nicolò.”

Nicolò laughs, properly. It’s over far too quickly but it was enough to make Yusuf nearly snap his pencil in half. Yusuf will find a way to hear it again. He will just have to think of some better stories. “I do,” Nicolò says. “I do.”

Yusuf smiles, and puts the finishing touches on his sketch. It’s very messy, and not even close to what he would like it to be. Still, he thinks it a good first attempt at capturing how striking Nicolò looks. He passes over the paper, watching Nicolò closely. 

Nicolò’s smile fades as he looks at it. He glances at Yusuf quickly before looking away. “What do you think?” Yusuf asks. 

“I think you are very talented,” Nicolò says quietly. 

“Thank you, but do you like it?” Yusuf asks. “Tell me honestly.”

“I…” Nicolò begins, smoothing his fingers over the charcoal. “I don’t know. You’ve made me look very… hard. Harsh. It’s strange to think that is how you see me.”

Yusuf hums and shifts around the fire so that he is kneeling before Nicolò. “May I?” he asks, reaching out with his hand. At Nicolò’s nod, Yusuf places a few careful fingers beneath Nicolò’s chin, tilting his head this way and that. Nicolò frowns a little, and Yusuf knows that he must seem to be looking critically, but Yusuf can’t help that - it is impossible to try to draw someone without making a careful study. 

“You overestimate my talent, I’m afraid,” Yusuf says gently. “It is just that harsh lines and hard edges are easy to put down, and you do have many of those. In your nose, and the line of your jaw, and the cut of your cheeks. You have some softness, too, in your chin and in your eyes. But those are all just parts of your face. It doesn’t have anything to do with how I see you.”

“Then,” Nicolò says, and swallows hard. “How do you see me?”

Yusuf considers him. “I see someone who is very proud, and headstrong, and stubborn. Clever too, and somewhat sly. All of that is well suited to the shape of you, with how sharp you are, and how your eyes change color as swiftly as you dodge my questions. If that was all I could see you would be easy to draw. But underneath all of that is someone thoughtful and sweet and selfless. I can see how kind you are, shining through. Maybe it’s in your bearing, or the way you hold yourself. I don’t think I will ever be able to put down how I see you.”

Nicolò has gone wide-eyed, and very still, but he's trembling slightly, against Yusuf's fingers. “You see all that when you look at me?”

“Yes,” Yusuf says. 

Nicolò closes his eyes for a long moment. 

“Nicolò,” Yusuf says, just loud enough to be heard over the crackle of the fire. “Can I kiss you?”

Nicolò startles, opening his eyes. “You’re asking,” he says, and for some reason looks very afraid. 

“Well of course I’m asking,” Yusuf says. “Like with the sketches, I don’t want to… make you uncomfortable.”

Nicolò nods, but he looks unhappy. Yusuf, sensing that he is not going to get his kiss after all, drops his hand from Nicolò’s chin, confused about where he went wrong.

“I’m sorry,” Nicolò says. “I can’t. Please don’t ask me again.”

***

Yusuf’s wounded pride would be easier to manage if Nicolò did not keep shooting him sorrowful looks as they make their way closer to the capital city. Yusuf tries to dwell on other matters, and luckily there are very large sights to divert him. Once they actually get inside the capital Yusuf is sufficiently distracted - everything is so large, right down to the cobblestones. The giants themselves are not quite as enormous as Yusuf imagined, but that’s not so surprising - Yusuf has known for years that giants only tend to be around two to three times as large as a regular man, but he has always pictured them as he had when he was a child, so towering that they scraped the sky, with toes the size of carriages.

Nicolò secures them two seperate rooms at the inn they find that caters to men of their stature. He hands Yusuf half of the remaining funds that he took from the bandits, and asks if Yusuf would like to accompany him to the wedding tomorrow, or whether he would rather stay here. 

“I’ll come if you want me to,” Yusuf says. 

“It would be nice to have a friend with me,” Nicolò tells him. 

“Alright,” Yusuf says. “I’ll pick up some suitable clothes.”

“Yusuf,” Nicolò says, wedging his toe into the gap before Yusuf can close the door. “I wish things were different. Maybe… after tomorrow, they will be.”

“Very well,” Yusuf says. “I will see you tomorrow.”

***

It turns out the wedding Nicolò was headed to was the  _ royal _ wedding, after all - Yusuf, upon realizing this, keeps his head ducked, trying not to be noticed, and doesn’t realize that Nicolò doesn’t actually have an invitation to it only once they are stopped by the security force. 

“Let us in,” Nicolò says, flushed. “Let us in, I - I need to - I need to be here - there’s someone I have to see -”

“Get out of here,” the guard says. “Before I have you dragged away.”

Nicolò makes an anguished sound and digs his fingers into Yusuf’s wrist. “I need to -”

Yusuf puts his hand on Nicolò’s shoulder. “Wait,” he says, quietly. “Let me handle this.”

Nicolò slips his hand into Yusuf’s and grasps it, hard. Yusuf turns to the guard and says: “I am terribly sorry for the inconvenience - I declined my invitation, and changed my mind too recently to send word. I was hoping to attend anyway. My name is Yusuf al-Kaysani.”

The guard blinks rapidly, and shifts his feet. 

“I am sure you will need to consult with your colleagues, and that there will only be so much that you can do,” Yusuf tells him. “My companion and I do not require admittance to the royal box, and will be happy to observe the ceremony under armed guard. We will comply with any security measures you deem necessary.”

So they are taken into a little, windowless room, where they ask him questions and examine his signet ring in order to determine that he is who he says he is, and eventually are escorted to the back of the hall to observe what is left of the ceremony. They’ve missed some of it, but Nicolò doesn’t seem to mind - throughout it all he has kept up his death grip on Yusuf’s hand, but once they are inside his hold gradually loosens, though he does not pull away. 

“Do you see who you are looking for?” Yusuf whispers. Nicolò nods. His eyes are focused on a small group of women standing quite close to the royal box. Yusuf squints at them, and sees the tell-tale shimmer that marks them as fairies. Yusuf thinks of Andromache and Quỳnh, and Nicolò’s watery eyes as they told him that their curse was broken, and swallows hard. “Do you need to get into the reception?” he asks. 

Nicolò turns towards him, eyes full of hope, and Yusuf nods. He turns to scan the crowd. “Excuse me,” he says, to one of the guards escorting them. “I spy my ambassador down there - she will be able to vouch for me.”

His ambassador is shocked to see him. He manages to talk her into only arranging for one simple meeting with the king and queen of Giant Country tomorrow, before heading back. Yusuf is going to have to work very hard to keep himself from starting a diplomatic incident and inciting his mother to locking him up in his rooms for the rest of the time left before his coronation. And perhaps for longer - he has no doubt that his mother could find a way, even after Yusuf becomes king.

Yusuf can only keep one eye on Nicolò as his ambassador introduces him to the noble dignitaries, but he sees him introduce himself to the fairies, bowing low. One in particular takes an interest in him. Nicolò nods, and says a few words to her before bowing once again and making his way back to Yusuf. 

“Thank you,” he whispers in Yusuf’s ear, before drifting away. He’s clearly not comfortable with the amount of people in this room, and he sticks to the shadows as Yusuf makes small talk with everyone. As things are winding down he slips from them to stand by Yusuf once again. “Are you ready to go back?” Yusuf asks. 

Nicolò shakes his head, and takes Yusuf’s hand and pulls Yusuf along with him to one of the exits that leads further into the palace. “My name is Nicolò di Genova,” he tells the guards. “The fairy Lucinda is expecting me.”

The guards nod, and let them pass. Nicolò seems to know exactly where he is going - he leads them to a set of closed doors and pauses in front of them, turning to look at Yusuf. 

“Do you have to go in there?” Yusuf asks. His family has no particular connection to fairies, aside from being royalty - one or two show up to their special occasions as a courtesy, but they haven’t deigned to bestow a gift to them for many generations. But even so, Yusuf knows that the most important thing to remember about fairies is that you should endeavor to spend as little time with them as possible. They offend easily, and the consequences of that are always too great.

“I must,” Nicolò says. “Yusuf, whatever you do, don’t come in. Promise me. No matter what, no matter - she mustn’t have you. Please promise me.”

“I promise,” Yusuf tells him. 

Nicolò takes Yusuf’s head in his hands and presses their foreheads together. “Thank you,” he whispers. “Thank you.”

He knocks on the door, and slips inside. 

Yusuf does not mean to eavesdrop, but after a few minutes Nicolò starts to raise his voice, and makes it impossible for Yusuf not to hear. “Please, Lucinda, please remove it,” he begs. “This is no way to live, can’t you see - there’s no way to live like this, I can’t - there’s no future, please, please -”

“Nonsense, Nicolò,” a melodic voice says over him. “Look at you, you’re a very nice young man, aren’t you! And how do you think you got that way?”

“Please,” Nicolò sobs, and Yusuf clenches his fists. Proud, sweet, Nicolò shouldn’t have to sound like this. “I’m begging you, I’ll do anything, I’ll do  _ anything _ -”

“Oh, do be quiet,” Lucinda says sharply, and Nicolò, mercifully, stops talking. Yusuf cannot believe he has gotten away unscathed thus far. “You say it has outlived its usefulness, but that’s clearly not the case, just look at you.”

Nicolò doesn’t say anything. 

“Now, I’m willing to put all this silliness behind us. Thank me for my thoughtful gift, Nicolò.”

“Thank you,” Nicolò says, dully. 

Yusuf does not hear that the fairy has left, but something in him knows, even through the door, that she is no longer inside. He opens it slowly, to find Nicolò on his knees, staring at the empty stretch of floor, where, presumably, a fairy stood a few moments ago. 

Yusuf sits down on the floor next to Nicolò and places his hand on Nicolò’s shoulder. “Let it out, if you need to,” he says, gently, and all at once Nicolò is sobbing and sobbing and sobbing, first into his hands, and then into Yusuf’s neck when he twists around and clutches at him. After a while he breaks away with a frustrated shout, and begins pounding his fist into the floor hard enough to rattle the furniture and split the skin on his knuckles. “Stop that!” Yusuf says, alarmed, and Nicolò throws back his head and  _ screams,  _ so loudly that Yusuf is sure someone will come to investigate. Yusuf, not knowing how else to keep him from hurting himself, wraps his arms around Nicolò from behind, grasping him by the wrists and holding them against his chest. Nicolò thrashes in his arms before the fight seems to leave him all at once, and he slumps back into Yusuf’s hold. 

“I’m sorry,” Yusuf whispers. 

Nicolò turns his face away. “Let go of me,” he rasps. 

“Are you going to try to hurt yourself again?” Yusuf asks. 

Nicolò shakes his head. Yusuf releases him, slowly, but once Nicolò gets to his feet all he does is cross to the washbasin and splash water onto his face, bracing himself against it for a while. Yusuf walks behind him, and watches Nicolò look at his reflection in the mirror. “I’ve been given rooms, here at the palace. Would you stay with me?”

“No,” Nicolò says. 

“But -”

“You don’t need me to take you back anymore, correct?” Nicolò says. 

“No,” Yusuf admits. 

“Well then. There we are. Simple.”

“But -”

Nicolò sighs, and turns around so they are face to face. “I want you to take this,” he says, folding Yusuf’s hands around his compass. “I no longer need it, and I don’t want it to fall into the wrong hands. But don’t rely on it - it can’t be trusted.”

“Why are you acting like this is goodbye?” Yusuf asks. “This doesn’t change anything, why - I don’t care that you’re cursed. How could I, when I don’t even know what it is? You don’t have to tell me. We could still be friends.”

“Yusuf,” Nicolò says, tiredly. “Please. Don’t make this harder for me.”

All of the fight drains away from Yusuf in an instant. “Alright,” he says. “Alright.”

Nicolò takes his hands, and looks at them, and says, “Thank you for everything. I will never forget you.”

Yusuf might cry, but he suspects that might make things harder for Nicolò, so he pushes the impulse down. “Wait.” he says instead, and rummages around in his pockets for paper and a pencil. “Here,” he says, scribbling down the address for his alias. “This is what I use for non-official matters - write to me. Even if it’s just once. Even if you only write my name and nothing else.”

Nicolò takes the scrap of paper. He presses a kiss to Yusuf’s cheek. “Be well” he says. "Be happy. Goodbye."  



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're taking a sharp left turn into epistolary melodrama here, so if that is not your jam... consider yourself warned?

Upon his return, Yusuf is confined to his apartments for a few weeks. Booker and Lykon are permitted to play cards with him through his open door, but that is not so much a comfort as a humiliation. They will not stop laughing at him. Yusuf is nearly twenty-five, after all, and soon to be king, but his mother had been very worried for him - he could see it in her eyes as she scolded him, and he is ashamed to admit he did not consider how his disappearance would affect her when making his decision to travel to Giant Country with Nicolò. He thinks he made the right choice, even discounting what he knows about why Nicolò was so eager to go - but his thoughtlessness does not reflect well upon him as a son. 

When his punishment is over he is summoned before his mother, who is holding a very large letter in her hands. “The queen of Giant Country writes that you conducted yourself very courteously,” she says, without looking at him directly, or greeting him by name, “and that they will be thrilled to aid us in the construction of a set of apartments designed with them in mind, so that they will be able to visit.”

Yusuf winces. “I’m sorry, Mama.”

His mother sighs, and puts down the letter. “You realize, of course, that there is a small matter of space, and money, and time and effort.”

“Yes,” Yusuf says. “But we have a largely empty menagerie, right next to the visitors wing, and more than enough gold for some serious renovations. And I did stress to them that this could not be completed for some time. And a better relationship with the giants could be immensely beneficial to us.”

“Hmm,” his mother says. “How so?”

“Well,” Yusuf says, and starts outlining his ideas about using giant engineering to construct larger bridges, over sections of the rivers thought to be impassable. He has spent his time in rooms studying maps, and there are a few places in particular where movement of goods could be immensely improved with one one or two strategic improvements to infrastructure. 

“Enough,” his mother says eventually, holding up her hand. “I am pleased with your idea, Yusuf - your father and I had been hoping to develop a better relationship with the giants for some time. I am just not pleased about the timing, and that you did this without consulting anyone. Even your own ambassador.”

“I’m sorry,” Yusuf says again. He knows he should have met with his ambassador before his meeting, but that morning he had been so caught up in thinking about Nicolò that he walked in completely unprepared, and had nothing but honesty to fall back on. He could only thank them sincerely for their hospitality, and promise to work to be able to return it.

“Well,” his mother says. “Since this is your idea, you can take responsibility. Set up a meeting with our treasurer.”

“Really?” Yusuf asks. 

“Yes, really,” his mother says, smiling and holding out the letter. “I know that I am still regent for the next few months, but it is about time that you had a project to handle on your own, without me looking over your shoulder.”

“Thank you!” Yusuf says, striding forward. He takes the letter and kisses her cheeks. She bats him away, muttering about having too much work to do anyway.

Yusuf tracks down his treasurer and his groundskeeper, and sets up meetings with the pair of them. When he finally finishes he has missed supper, and takes a plate from the kitchen up with him to his rooms. In his absence his mail was brought in, no longer held back as part of his punishment, and Yusuf sorts through it as he eats his food. It is the usual things - copies of the reports sent to his mother, a handful of letters from friends who are not currently at the palace. One thick envelope in a hand that he doesn’t recognize. Yusuf sits up a little straighter, and tears that one open first.

There are three letters inside, signed with Nicolò’s name, and helpfully dated at the corner. 

Sept. 21

Prince Yusuf, 

You requested that I write, and so I am, though I do not think I will post this. Although I still have the paper you gave me with your address, so I have not decided not to post it either. Your penmanship is very fine, as befits a prince. If you do read this, I hope you will not judge mine too harshly. At the moment I am writing on Quỳnh and Andromache’s table, which wobbles dreadfully, though my teachers despaired of me when I practiced on a writing table, too. 

Yusuf smiles. Nicolò’s handwriting is clear and legible, though distinctly spiky. It’s the sort of oddity that would have driven Yusuf’s tutors insane, as there is nothing really wrong with it to correct aside from being peculiar.

I hope you arrived back at the palace safely, and that your appearance at the royal wedding did not cause too much of a stir. I am well aware that you put yourself into an awkward situation on my behalf - thank you again. I cannot thank you enough. 

I think I have decided not to post this letter after all. 

\- Nicolò

Yusuf picks up the next one.

Sept. 26

Prince Yusuf,

I have still not thrown away your address - if I do decide to send these the first letter will be very embarrassing - I am afraid you will think I am quite fickle. And I will not be able to simply not send the first, having referenced it here. Perhaps I am fickle. Perhaps it would be better to tell you the first letter dropped into the river and washed away, and I could no longer remember its contents, but I think you are too intelligent to accept that, and I find I have no desire to lie to you. 

At the moment I am still with Andromache and Quỳnh - it has been good to spend time with them. They are so happy; it is wonderful to see. Though I must say that being the sole audience to their rekindled passion is beginning to lose its appeal. One might think that they would want to make use of their newfound ability to keep their distance from each other, but that is not the case - I think they might stick closer to each other now than they did before. But that is their choice now, so of course I understand it is different. And truly, it makes me so happy to see them like this, I wouldn’t change anything at all. 

They have offered to let me stay with them indefinitely, and I won’t say I’m not tempted - but they deserve complete freedom in building their life together, and I won’t foist myself on them. I have yet to decide where I will go. It seems I am very indecisive these days, about my direction, about these letters - I don’t think my compass would work for me at all; I am glad I gave it to you.

\- Nicolò

The third letter is written on slightly different paper, and with different ink. 

Oct. 10

Prince Yusuf,

I have decided to post these letters after all. This time I am fairly sure that I will actually go through with it. It occurred to me that even if I lost the paper you gave me I had spent so long looking at it to have memorized your alias. Though it helps that it is not at all subtle (Joseph? Really? Did you come up with that yourself or did someone else do it for you?)

I have realized that I am sorry for how I left things between us. I thought a swift break would be best but when you were gone I realized all that had done was leave me with so many things unsaid. It would have been better to wait to say goodbye until I had a clearer head.

I did not thank you enough for helping me at the end, though I suspect that I never could. I also should have told you how much I enjoyed your company - it has been many years since I traveled with a companion and our conversations made the long hours pass by quickly. You know that the result of my trip was disappointing, and it is tempting to regret setting out at all - but I do not, thanks to you.

In the end, I decided to return to live with my stepmother, at least for the time. I ask you not to come to see me. But you may write to me, if you wish, though not having a (very clever) alias I would ask that you address them to our cook, Mandy, who has promised not to read them. I don’t think my step sisters would be interested in my mail, but they are a bit suspicious of me, having returned from a long absence so suddenly. 

\- Nicolò

Yusuf is tempted to write back immediately, but he makes himself wait, and reread the letters carefully. Nicolò did not have to write, and he did not have to provide him with a return address - Yusuf has been extended a great deal of trust, and he is not going to repay that trust with carelessness. 

Nicolò wants him to write, that is clear - but he does not want to talk about his curse, and the connection that they have is acknowledged, but kept vague. He has been firm about his desire not to see Yusuf again, without an ‘I wish things could be different’ this time. 

He wants a friend. 

Well, that is not what Yusuf would want, all things being equal - but things are not equal. All things being as they are, Yusuf would prefer to have Nicolò as a friend than to not have him at all.

 _Nicolò,_ he writes. _I am so pleased to hear from you. I_

Yusuf pauses, and scratches his head. He adds: _have been worried for you since we parted. I am glad you visited with Andromache and Quỳnh. I am sure they_

This is proving to be harder than he expected. He sets aside the good paper and ink, and reaches for the kind he uses for drafting. 

An hour or so later, he sets down the finished letter.

Nicolò,

I am so pleased to hear from you. I have been worried for you since we parted. I am glad you visited with Andromache and Quỳnh, I am sure they were happy to see you again. Have you considered that they might be less amorous, with you as an audience? It may be they were holding back - a worrying thought for you perhaps, but for them a happy one. 

Do not worry yourself over the trouble I got into for making my presence known at the wedding - I had a meeting with the king and queen, and promised to build them a suitable set of visitors quarters at my palace, so that I would be able to return their hospitality one day. My mother is cross with me for promising such a grand gesture with little concern over how difficult it would be to achieve, but is also reluctantly pleased with me for finding a way to strengthen the diplomatic ties between our two countries. I have been tasked with bringing the idea to fruition - it is somewhat daunting, with this being the first time my mother has not had a guiding hand in directing my efforts.

I promise I will not come to see you, as you request. I hope that you will write back to me (I will have you know that I picked my alias, when I was nine - you are very rude to insult such a thoughtful, carefully considered, very subtle choice. Perhaps, as an apology, you could tell me about your estate - I was only there the once, and I don’t remember it very well.)

\- Yusuf

He hopes he has chosen the right words. He sends it, and tries to put it out of his mind.

He receives a response a few days later. 

Prince Yusuf,

I had not considered that Andromache and Quỳnh might have been holding back on my account - I will not lie and say I am not somewhat disturbed by that prospect. Though knowing them, it is just as likely that they were playing things up, on my account - they do like to tease me. 

He goes on to describe a few things at the estate, mostly bemoaning the fact that he can no longer squeeze into the little nooks and crannies that he could when he was a boy. Yusuf tries valiantly not to picture Nicolò’s broad shoulders, and is unsuccessful. Then he asks a few shrewd questions about Yusuf’s plan for the visitor’s quarters, and finishes by writing:

(I will not apologize for criticizing your frightful excuse of an alias. You might have changed it, in the years since.)

\- Nicolò

Yusuf finds himself grinning. It is not that he forgot how easy it was to talk to Nicolò, but he is thrilled that it seems similarly easy for them to write to each other. 

It is not so hard to set down his response this time - he answers Nicolò’s questions about how the preparations for the visitor’s quarters is going (not well - the palace architects are not pleased, and things are slowing down as the coronation approaches) and tells him an amusing story about the time he and Lykon had gotten lost in the crawl space and had been too embarrassed to shout for help, even as they watched the entire household descend into an absolute frenzy through a gap in the wall. He finishes it by saying:

(I might have changed it, true - but imagine how suspicious it would look if all of a sudden Joseph stopped receiving letters, and there was a sudden rush of mail all addressed to Alphonso.)

\- Yusuf

***

The night before his coronation, Yusuf has an intimate dinner with just himself, his mother, and Lykon and Booker, an event which is growing more and more rare. Lykon and Booker are practicing calling Yusuf by his new title, nevermind that Yusuf cannot remember them calling him _your highness_ even once.

“Is it Your Highest Majesty?” Booker pretends to ask, grinning. 

“Your Most Majesty,” Lykon throws out. 

“ _The_ Highest Majesty,” Booker argues. 

“The Highest, Most Majestic Sire,” Lykon adds. 

“Stop,” Yusuf pleads, but only half-heartedly - his mother is laughing quietly, and that’s nice to see. They’ve both been in a melancholy mood the past few weeks.

“No, no,” Lykon says. “I think we’re getting it. Book, is it -”

“The Most Majestic, Sirest High.”

“Yes!” Lykon grins. “That is it. King Yusuf, the Most Majestic, Sirest High.”

“I cannot believe you,” Yusuf grumbles. “You realize, I am going to remember this ridiculous conversation tomorrow in the middle of something important and embarrass myself in front of everyone.”

“Good,” Booker says. 

“Oh, that reminds me,” Yusuf’s mother says, still chuckling. “Yusuf - it is extremely unlikely, but you must be prepared if the fairies decide to offer you a gift - you need to think of something to ask for.”

“Perhaps he should ask for wisdom,” Lykon says, grinning at him. “He could certainly use it.”

“No!” His mother says, alarmed. “No, do not ask for anything like that.”

The mood shifts in an instant. She is rarely so sharp. “Why?” Booker asks, warily.

“People who receive gifts like that from fairies rarely last very long,” his mother says. 

“Why not?” Yusuf can’t help but ask. He has avoided seeking out this kind of information, worried that it would be some kind of invasion of privacy, but that is a difficult thing to do when the opportunity falls into his lap. “Is there… some kind of time limit? They can have wisdom, but only for twenty years?”

“Oh no, nothing like that.” his mother says. “No, it simply makes it very difficult to live. A gift of a virtue might sound like a good idea - but a child blessed to be brave is not going to be able to back down when things get too dangerous for them to handle. Anything taken to an extreme is going to be dangerous.”

They all go quiet, after that, and Yusuf’s mother sighs. “Gifts from fairies are rare enough, and those types of gifts even more so. But think of something humble to ask for, just in case.”

The next day, Yusuf is crowned, in a very long and very boring ceremony. The fairies do not offer him a gift. 

***

“Are you paying attention to me, Yusuf?” his mother says, a few months after his coronation, during one of the dinners they have with just the two of them.

“Sorry, Mama,” Yusuf says. 

She huffs. “Are you thinking about that lover of yours?”

Yusuf chokes on his food, and coughs for the next two minutes. His mother remains serene. 

“What?” he is finally able to ask. 

“The one who is writing you letters. Are you going to tell me about them? Or am I going to need to have your letters tracked?” She eyes him critically. “Or dig out the one that is in your pocket?”

Yusuf flushes, and fights down the urge to clasp at his chest, where Nicolò’s latest letter is tucked up close to his skin. He fell into the habit a month or two ago, when a sudden rain had rendered months of work on the foundation for the visitor’s apartments useless. He’d gone up to his rooms, suddenly flooded with the realization that this might take years to complete. And any of the improvements that he planned, that could improve the lives of his people, might still be decades in the making. Yusuf’s father had ambitions too, and never saw them come to pass. 

So he had been in a horrible, morbid mood, and there had been a new letter from Nicolò. And it had made him laugh, and Nicolò had said at the end that he was sure that Yusuf was the best person to be working on the apartments for the visitors, because the passion that he had for the project would aid him in overcoming any setbacks. 

So yes, he has been carrying Nicolò’s latest letter with him ever since. They have been a great comfort to him.

His mother is still looking at him expectedly. 

“It’s not like that,” Yusuf protests, weakly.

His mother hums. “In that case, I will arrange a series of balls for you, so that you may pick your future spouse. It is about time you were married.”

“No!” Yusuf cries, and loses all hope of salvaging this conversation.

His mother folds her hands in front of her chin, and waits him out. 

“It’s an impossibility,” Yusuf says. 

“And why is that?” his mother asks. “Are they already married?”

“No!” Yusuf cries again, horrified. “No. It’s just - there are difficulties. And I don't need to be married yet, anyway.”

His mother sighs. “Yusuf. I will be with you, for as long as I can be, and you will have the use of your father and I’s advisors. But they are not yours - they will not be able to help you be the kind of king that you want to be, at least not all of them. You need to build your own support system. I like Lykon and Booker, but they are your friends - they will have their own lives, their own interests - they will not be able to know you as a spouse would. They will not be able to support you in the same way.”

Yusuf looks down at his plate, schooling his thoughts. “I will not pretend that I am not interested,” Yusuf admits eventually. “But I have reason to think that they would not agree. And - it is a man. I would be the last al-Kaysani, after Baba. I don’t know how you would feel about that. To be honest, _I_ do not know how I feel about that.”

His mother nods, and thinks for a moment. “If you had no prior attachment, it is true that I would encourage you to make a match that might let you have children,” she says. “But if you have feelings for someone that is another matter entirely.” She sighs. “There is no great urgency; you are still young and you should take time to consider what is important to you. But it is no easy thing, to be married to a king, and I would like to be able to help whoever you are married to for as long as possible. If he is not amenable, or you decide you would rather have children, it would be best to consider other options soon.”

“I will think about it,” Yusuf promises. “Give me some time.”

That night, in his room, Yusuf paces back and forth as he considers what he wants. He always vaguely liked the idea of having children, imagined that he would enjoy raising them and loving them as his parents did with him. If he were to pursue things with a man, he would be advised to name an heir in a few years from one of his cousins and bring them to court. He wouldn’t be a father, but he would be a mentor, an uncle, perhaps. It wouldn’t be the same, but Yusuf doesn’t think he would mind - not if he had the right person beside him.

There is also the matter of Nicolò’s curse. He still does not have a clear idea of what it is - they did not spend enough time together for Yusuf to notice one virtue standing out in particular. If he were pressed to make a guess he would say that Nicolò is always drawn to help those in need (it would explain how he stumbled across both Yusuf and Alana in the woods). Perhaps he would not be able to live in a comfortable palace. Perhaps he would always be needing to leave. 

That… that would be difficult. And if it is something else, Yusuf is sure that too, would be difficult. But it has already been difficult, thinking of Nicolò having to manage it on his own - if Nicolò would allow it, Yusuf will gladly manage it with him. 

Which brings him to Nicolò, and what he might think. Yusuf opens the box, and rereads Nicolò’s letters, looking for signs that Nicolò would still be open to considering him more than a friend - writing, of course, makes it easier to hide your true feelings. But there are hints, here and there. When he finally dropped the title from Yusuf’s name he had written _alright, I admit it did look silly, but I’m afraid now I might forget not to say too much. I hope you will not take offense if I am overly familiar._

Nicolò will relate some story about his life, and add that it made him think of Yusuf. He has started to say things such as, _If you were here, I am sure you would be better able to convince my stepmother that resurfacing the chimney is a ridiculous idea._ And of course there is the sheer amount of letters sent - more than once Nicolò has sent him a letter before Yusuf’s latest letter arrived, and more than once he has mentioned staying up late to respond right away. 

Yusuf, feeling more nervous than he has in months, reaches for his ink. 

Nicolò,

I do apologize - I have not received a letter from you since I last wrote - I am sure you were very witty, and asked me questions that I cannot answer. It is just that today I had reason to think about the depth of our friendship, and found that I wanted to write to you immediately. I must admit that I have spent many hours cursing myself, as a boy, for not seeing you as I do now, when you spent time at the palace. I thought you very boring, you know, but I think part of the reason is that I was at an age where I only desired companions who were older than I was, thinking them very glamorous. 

Imagine where we could be now, if I had not been so short-sighted! You might have your own quarters, here, as Booker and Lykon do, and you would only be a handful of rooms away, if I wanted to seek you out. Even now, it is difficult writing to you and having to wait days for your response, knowing that I could ride out to you when I am in need of your advice far quicker. 

That is another thing! I have discovered that I constantly crave your input - whether that is on serious matters or non-serious ones. I cannot go into too much detail in these letters, and even if I could I am not often able to wait for your response. I find that not knowing your opinion makes any decisions I make more difficult. 

I know the content of this letter is quite different from our usual ones - but it seemed important to me to make you know how much I value our connection. 

\- Yusuf

Yusuf seals it and sends it before he can change his mind. 

Two days later he receives a letter, clearly sent from before Yusuf’s arrived. The timing is impossible, for one, and Nicolò just complains to him in length about the latest challenge he has had in refacing the chimney. 

Yusuf reads that letter, and waits before responding. Nicolò usually writes him back within a day or two of receiving Yusuf’s letters, and so he waits the customary amount of time, and then he waits a week after that, and despairs, and sets about drafting a response to the one that Nicolò sent before Yusuf had to go ahead and ruin everything. 

He still can’t quite bring himself to post it, and the next day a new letter arrives from Nicolò. Normally, Yusuf saves them so that he can read them right before bed, but he tears it open immediately.

Yusuf,

I apologize for the delay in responding to your latest letter. I hope you did not worry yourself about the time it took for me to write back. I tried, many times, but found myself unable to put my thoughts down on paper. I too, have been thinking about the shapes our lives have taken, and speculating about how things might have been different. I do not blame you for thinking me boring, all those years ago (though I do fault you for stating it so bluntly - if you mean to flatter me you are not doing a very good job of it). 

I am glad to hear you value our friendship so highly. I must confess, it is the same for me. I think about you constantly, and those moments, when I am thinking of you, are often the times when I am happiest.

\- Nicolò

Yusuf clutches the letter to his chest, like a love struck fool. He nearly overturns his inkpot, in reaching for it so hastily. 

_Nicolò,_ he writes, and adds a _Dear_ before it, and adds a _My_ before that, and realizes that the punctuation is wrong, and he’s had to scribble it into the margin in a way that makes it humiliatingly obvious what has happened, and it’s probably too ardent anyway. He starts on a new piece of paper.

Dear Nicolò,

I am relieved to hear that I have not overstepped, and I apologize sincerely for presenting my (incorrect) impression of you in such an unflattering light. I am happy to flatter you: you might be interested to know that I keep all your letters in a special box, that I keep beside my bed, separate from all my other correspondence - except for your most recent, which I keep close to me at all times. We have sent so many letters to each other that I will need a bigger box soon. I have thought about making room by removing some of your letters that I do not like so much, but found that task impossible. 

I miss you. I wish I could see you again. As strange as it is to imagine, I wish we were back making our way through the world together, sharing one cup and huddling together under one cloak. I miss your clever conversation, and the tickle of your hair against my face on those two nights that we lay close together. 

Yusuf stops, and stares down at all the blank space still left on the paper. He has never written a love letter before (and there’s no denying that that’s what this is). The idea of Nicolò reading it makes him both elated and terrified. He feels slightly nauseous. He decides to lean into it. 

I am terrified that you will read this letter and be taken aback by it’s contents. And yet I find it impossible to restrain myself, not without some kind of sign from you that these sentiments are unwelcome, or unreturned. Say a word and I will return to writing to you as I did before, but I hope that you will not.

I will be thinking of you.

\- Yusuf

It is difficult to do anything other than wait for Nicolò’s response. It is slow to arrive again, but that is not as worrying after the delay the last time. Perhaps Yusuf should have waited to post his own, to not seem overeager.

When it comes this time, Yusuf forces himself to wait. Whatever is inside, he doubts he would be able to go about his day after reading it. So he leaves it unopened on his desk, and listens to his advisors discuss the irrigation problems in the Eastern plains as best he can over dinner, and murmurs a vague assent when they suggest sending one of their surveyors to see what can be done.

Then it is finally time. Yusuf retreats to his rooms, and sits at his desk, and opens the letter. 

Yusuf, 

I should tell you to stop, but I can’t. 

I wish I could tell you that I keep all your letters, as you do mine, but I don’t. I keep the latest one in my pocket, so I can reach in and stroke my fingers along the edge when I am tired, or sad, and feel an echo of you against my skin. I burn the rest. It pains me to do it but the idea of someone else reading the letters you send me is worse.

At night I close my eyes and imagine your smile. I wrap my arms around myself and pretend it is you that is holding me. 

I must cut this letter short, for fear of saying something more foolish than I already have. I know I shouldn’t post it, but I imagine I will.

\- Nicolò

Yusuf stares down at it, heart pounding and dizzy, a slight buzzing in his ears. His face is burning. He has to stand up and splash water on his face before he is calm enough to pick up his pen without his hands trembling. 

My dearest Nicolò,

Very well. If you will not say something foolish, I will: I love you.

If that was not foolish enough: I want to marry you. If you are unsure, you can come and live at the palace until you have made up your mind. I will attempt to convince you, for as long as you like. 

I know there are things you haven’t told me that might make things difficult, but I don’t care. We can make accommodations for whatever it is. We can find a way to make it work.

I usually try to find some clever words for you, but I am too stunned by your letter to think clearly. Write me back. I love you.

\- Yusuf

Nicolò writes him back immediately. 

Yusuf,

I will attempt to match you: I will come to the palace. I imagine I will need very little convincing. 

There are a handful of things I need to take care of first - I will send word when I am ready. 

I am sorry this letter is so short, and lacking in sentiment. I am overcome.

Yours in foolishness (and in love),

\- Nicolò

Yusuf starts laughing. And then abruptly realizes that he has promised to woo Nicolò and he doesn’t know how to do it, and starts panicking. 

Well, Nicolò often talks about taking long walks on his estate. Presumably, he likes nature - he will have to show Nicolò around the grounds. Yusuf's favorite place is the reflecting pond, but it is not as nice in the winter. Yusuf grabs his sketchbook and flips through until he finds a view of it in summer. He can prepare a painting to give to Nicolò when he arrives.

He doesn’t tell anyone about his plans, because Lykon and Booker would tease him relentlessly. He will still be teased later, but at least they will be more subtle about it when Nicolò is actually present. They love him too much to embarrass him in front of the subject of his affections.

Two days later he receives another letter from Nicolò. He waits again until after dinner, when he is sure to remain undisturbed before tearing it open. 

He sees the word ‘Beloved’ in Nicolò’s spiky handwriting, and nearly swoons. And then he reads the rest of it, and frowns. He flips the letter over, but there’s nothing there - the back of the envelope doesn’t contain any clues. He sits down in his chair and reads it again. 

He’s still sitting when the sun comes up. He puts down the letter and sends for Booker.

***

Yusuf has put a lot of thought into this, so when Lykon and Booker bring in Nicolò, he is sitting at his desk, going through some papers. Nicolò’s eyes are wide - he looks nervous. He’s realized his mistake. Good. One less thing Yusuf has to worry about. 

“It is customary,” Lykon says slowly, seething. Yusuf hadn’t been sure about telling him because of his propensity to joke, but he was just as angry as Booker, and a little more frightening for it. “To kneel before your king.”

Nicolò’s face does something complicated, and he begins to kneel. 

“No,” Yusuf says flatly. “No, you stay standing, Nicolò.”

Confusion flashes over Nicolò’s face, and he clenches his hands into fists. Yusuf doesn’t much care for this kind of game, but he does know how to play it. Nicolò was expecting to be dragged in on his knees, so demanding the opposite is more effective. He nods to Booker and Lykon, and they back out of the room, leaving the two of them alone.

He shuffles through his papers and picks up the letter. “Beloved,” Yusuf reads. He practiced for hours and his hand doesn’t shake, and his voice doesn’t waver. “I will not be able to write to you again for some time, because your plan has finally come into fruition - the king has asked me to marry him. I will write again when it is safe, and send to you whatever trinkets I can from the palace that will not be missed. You are to be congratulated, my love - as you well know, I did not think this scheme had a chance of success, but the king is as naive and pliable as you expected. Ever yours, Nicolò.”

Yusuf places it on the table. “Well,” he says.

Nicolò, standing in the center of the room, looks very pale. Yusuf wishes that this new reveal of character would make him less beautiful, but he is as striking as ever. 

“No, wait, I forgot the postscript,” Yusuf says, and picks it up again. “Do not worry for me - I have laid enough groundwork that he will not expect me to be a devoted husband. He will accept any boundary I set - and if he does not, you know that my heart belongs only to you.” He folds it up, and sets it back down. “How very touching.”

Nicolò just stands there. Yusuf notices, idly, that he’s dressed poorly, in just a thin linen shirt and trousers. Perhaps Lykon and Booker pulled him away from his bed. He’s not going to ask. He stands and walks around his desk. “All right, then,” he says, gesturing to the room. “Look around. There are many trinkets here, and you have earned yourself a handful at least. This was very well done.”

Nicolò glances around the room and then trains his eyes on the floor, biting his lip. 

“No?” Yusuf asks. “Hmm. Are you sure? You will not get another chance.” He pauses, to see if Nicolò will answer. When he does not he steps in close to him and sees, with some satisfaction, Nicolò flinching away. 

“Just in case it needs saying, my offer of marriage no longer stands,” Yusuf says. “The only reason I have not dragged you before the courts is because of the affection my mother had for yours, and it would pain her to know how poorly her friend raised her son.”

He had hoped that Nicolò still held enough affection for his mother that that would hurt, and it does. Nicolò shudders and glances up at Yusuf before looking back away. “If I see you again, I will not be so generous,” Yusuf finishes. “Booker and Lykon will bring you back to your home.” With that, he sits back down at his desk, and focuses on the important papers before him. After a few moments, Nicolò walks away. Yusuf does not move until the door shuts behind him, and then he slumps back into his chair, swallowing down the slick, hot taste of humiliation. 

He puts the letter in the box with the rest of them. He will not need a bigger box after all. He takes it and shoves it into the darkest corner of his closet that he can find. 

As he asked, Booker and Lykon don’t join him for dinner, so it is just him and his mother. “Mama,” he says, staring down at his plate of untouched food. “You can arrange those balls you mentioned.” 

After a few silent moments, she pushes her chair back and spreads her arms, and Yusuf scrambles out of his own chair and collapses at her feet, burying his face into her lap in a way he hasn’t since he was a child. 

“Oh, my son,” she says, running her hands through his hair. “I’m so sorry.” Yusuf clutches at her and finally, _finally_ , starts to sob. “I’m here, sweetheart,” she murmurs, as she holds him through it. “I’m here.”

It runs its course, eventually, and she tilts his face up, forcing him to meet her gaze. “There’s no rush,” she says gently. “You can have some time.”

“No,” Yusuf says hoarsely. “I want to - I want to move past this.”

She nods, and rubs her thumb over his cheek. “Alright,” she says. “Alright.”


	4. Chapter 4

Yusuf gives himself two weeks to wallow in misery, and then throws himself into his work. It takes some time to arrange the balls, and to send the invitations out, so by the time they are held, half a year later, Yusuf does not feel so fragile. He tries to be courteous to all of the attendees, and he thinks he is, though he knows that he is not as carefree as he might have been a year ago. 

Perhaps it was unfair to all of these lovely people to hold the ball so close to his own heartbreak, but he does want to move on quickly. 

He spends most of the first night dancing with people he already knows, and making conversation with the people he does not. Booker and Lykon keep close to him at all times, listening in on his conversations, and stay up late with him afterward, talking through and confirming Yusuf’s impressions of the people he spoke to. _No, that wasn’t suspicious. Yes, they seemed a bit predatory. Yes, she seemed genuine._

“I’m sorry,” Yusuf says, when Lykon stifles a yawn behind his hand. “I just -”

“It’s fine,” Lykon says quickly. “I’m happy to provide a second opinion, this time.”

Yusuf smiles weakly and looks back down at his rapidly narrowing list. Booker claps a hand on Yusuf’s shoulder and squeezes. “It won’t happen again,” Booker promises. 

The next night, he continues to talk to people, and dances with a few of the people he felt better about. 

“Did you paint the view of the city that is on display in the entryway?” 

Yusuf blinks down at his partner. Everyone else has been taking the opportunity to tell him about themselves, not asking anything about him.

“Yes,” he says. “Did you like it?”

She nods. “The atmosphere is lovely, though I thought I saw an error in the perspective.”

“Really?” Yusuf asks. He had spent quite a long time on it, paying attention to every inch. Though it had been when he was much younger. “Would you care to point it out to me?” 

“Of course,” she says. They finish up their dance, and then he offers her his arm. 

Lykon appears at his elbow in an instant. “Where are you going?” he asks.

“Lady Nile is going to point out an error I made in a painting.”

“Now this, I have to see,” Lykon says, clapping a hand on Yusuf’s shoulder.

“See here,” she says, pointing to one of the buildings. “It should be behind both the fountain and this other building. But it’s not.”

Yusuf peers closer at it. “You’re right!” he says. Lykon starts to cackle, and Yusuf shoves at him, shooting an embarrassed look at Nile when he realizes he is looking less than kingly. She just seems amused. 

“It really is a lovely painting,” she says. “It’s a very small thing, all things considered, and art doesn’t have to be perfect.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Yusuf says, trying to ignore the way that Lykon is still laughing behind him, and promising to point this out to Yusuf’s mother. “You have a keen eye. Though I remember you saying that you preferred sculpture?”

“Yes, and watercolors when I am working in two dimensions,” she says, accepting his arm as he leads them back to the hall. “Oils can obviously be very striking, but I enjoy how ethereal watercolors can be.” 

“Do you have any of your work with you?” Yusuf asks. “I would love to see.”

“I always have something I’m working on with me,” Nile says, laughing. “Though what I have is far from my best work.”

“I would be very foolish to criticize you, after you found something in a painting of mine that was so prominently displayed,” Yusuf says. “Come have lunch with me tomorrow?”

“Of course,” Nile says. They’ve returned to the ballroom. Nile nods to him and disappears into the crowd. Yusuf watches her go. 

“She’s interesting,” Lykon remarks. 

“Yes,” Yusuf says. 

***

The gap between the second ball and the last is longer, so that he can spend time with some people outside of a public setting. After the first lunch with Nile, where she describes some of her sculptures and shows him the paintings she brought with her of her home, he invites her back the next day. And the day after that. 

It is nice to have someone to talk to about art - Booker and Lykon tend to become glassy eyed, after too long, and began refusing to accompany Yusuf when he wants to paint many years ago. Well, that’s not entirely true - Booker will occasionally tag along if he has the right book. But he usually prefers to stay inside, where there are proper chairs. Nile does not mind debating him viscously about the merits of oils versus watercolors, so the next day they head out to the reflecting pool to paint the same scene to see which medium is better. 

Yusuf graciously allows her some extra time since she has not painted this scene, before joining her at his own easel. They make a few remarks to each other as they go along, but pass most of the time in companionable silence. 

After, they compare the paintings. “Yours is better,” Yusuf admits. There is a shimmering quality to it that captures this day more accurately. 

“Yes, it is,” Nile says. 

Yusuf smiles. “Would you sit with me?” he asks. 

She nods, and they take a seat at one of the benches. 

“It cannot have escaped your attention that I have spent the most time with you, out of all the guests,” Yusuf says. 

“I did notice, yes.”

“I… apologize if this is awkward,” he begins. “I enjoy your company very much, and I feel drawn to you, but only as a friend. That does not preclude me marrying you, as that is the best I feel I can reasonably expect in a match. But I don’t want to keep you from a romance of your own, if that is what you want.”

“I see,” Nile says slowly. “Well, that is a bit of a relief, as I have been trying to think of a way to tell you I regard you as a brother before you tried to kiss me on one of our secluded walks.”

“I would ask first,” Yusuf says, which brings him back to remembering Nicolò. At least Yusuf does not have a memory of a kiss. Something to be grateful for. 

“I’m sure you would,” Nile says, smiling. 

“Would you consider marrying me?” Yusuf asks. “If you would prefer not to, I understand. You are a lovely person, and deserve to have romance, if that’s what you want.”

“I… would have to think on it,” Nile says. “I didn’t really expect this kind of match, coming here.” 

“Of course,” Yusuf says. “Do you have any questions for me?”

“Why are you not seeking a romance of your own? You are only a few years older than me.”

Yusuf winces. “I thought I had one.”

“Oh,” she says. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

“Worse,” Yusuf says. “He was using me. The entire time, I think,” Yusuf says. It has been difficult to think of all of the lies that he told. Booker had speculated once about him being in league with the bandits from the beginning, and after that Yusuf has found it best not to think too hard about him.

Just at that moment, Yusuf’s mother rides up to them. It is not a coincidence - Yusuf has been trying to avoid her on purpose, until he and Nile had a chance to speak frankly, and she doesn’t care for riding unless it’s to catch him in something. 

Yusuf sighs and gets to his feet. Nile does the same, without the sigh. 

“Yusuf,” she says, with the slight squint of her eyes that means he will get a very stern talking to later. “Lady Nile,” she says, much more warmly. “How nice to see you again.”

“And you, your majesty,” Nile says. 

“I had been hoping to talk to you privately,” Yusuf’s mother says. “I’m sure there are questions, you might have?”

“Nile isn’t ready for -” Yusuf begins. 

“I’ll speak for myself, thank you,” Nile says, cutting him off. To his mother, she says. “I’m not ready for that conversation yet.”

Yusuf’s mother laughs. “And I imagine you will not hesitate to tell me when you are. Alright. Enjoy the rest of your day.” With that, she kicks her horse into motion, still chuckling.

“You realize,” Yusuf says glumly, “that she will be very cross with me now, if you do not agree.”

“I do realize that, yes,” Nile says, smiling at him. 

***

On the last night he dances with Nile and a few of the others, and then slips away so that Lykon and Booker can actually enjoy themselves. 

He ends up wandering the halls of the palace, looking for a distraction. As he often does, he finds himself making his way towards the ongoing construction, to survey the progress being made. Despite them having such a strong tie to one of the uglier chapters of Yusuf’s life, he is proud of them. Or perhaps he is proud of them _because_ they were born of something that hurt him so badly - a reminder that Yusuf can create good out of his missteps.

At this point, the foundation is set, for both the quarters and the covered walkway that will lead to the great hall. And they’ve knocked out space for an outer door to the great hall that will be large enough to allow entry. Yusuf has invited giant architects for the remaining steps, to be sure that the walls are strong enough to accommodate their guests - they are due to arrive in a few months, so Yusuf is now at work making sure that there is space for them on the grounds to erect their temporary accommodations. 

He steps through the door of the great hall and finds someone else contemplating the hole in the wall. From their clothes they should be at the ball. Yusuf clears his throat, and they turn around and yelp at the sight of him. 

Yusuf opens his mouth to censure them, but thinks better of it. The young man’s long, black hair is uneven and messy, and the way his thin wrists poke out of his ill-fitting suit points to this being a younger brother, just barely old enough to come. He’s still wearing a mask - perhaps he has spots. “Are you lost?” Yusuf asks instead, as kindly as he can. 

“Your majesty.” The young man's voice cracks, and he executes a clumsy, shaky bow. Yusuf tries to keep his smile from being too amused. His voice, when he clears his throat, is high and breathy. Still just a boy. “I - I - I’m so sorry -“

“No harm done,” Yusuf says gently. “Come, take my arm, I’ll escort you back.”

“Oh - oh -“ he starts, shaking his head at Yusuf’s outstretched arm even as he reaches for it.

“Don’t worry, I won’t bite,” Yusuf says, winking. “What’s your name?”

“Michael.”

“Michael,” Yusuf repeats, as the young man takes his arm and falls in step with Yusuf. “Why aren’t you at the party?”

“Why aren’t you?” Michael asks, and cringes away. “I’m sorry, I -“

“No need to apologize, it’s a fair question,” Yusuf assures him. “I no longer needed to be there, and I wanted my friends to be able to enjoy themselves. They are preoccupied with me, when I am there.”

“Oh,” Michael says. “You have decided, then? You are going to be married?”

“Nothing is official, yet,” Yusuf says, though Nile has tentatively agreed. 

“Of course, but… I have seen... you were spending a lot of time with lady Nile,” Michael says. 

“Yes,” Yusuf says. “She is excellent company, and we share many common interests.”

After a few long moments, Michael says, quietly: “Congratulations. I wish you the best of luck, in love.”

Yusuf’s laugh has an edge to it, though it is not as hysterical as it would have been six months ago. “It is too late for that, I think. Lady Nile and I will only ever be friends.”

“But -“ Michael says. “But she is so beautiful, and you said -“

“It has nothing to do with her,” Yusuf says hurriedly. “She is lovely, and I am sure we shall be very close companions. But I am afraid I had my heart broken quite thoroughly, and it is unlikely that I will trust enough to love again. I can’t be sure of it, at least.”

“But - but -“ 

Poor Michael seems quite distressed. No doubt Yusuf is dashing some romantic notion of his. He pats Michael’s arm. “It’s quite alright,” he says. “Love is not meant for everyone.”

“No!” Michael says, quite abruptly, stopping and clutching at Yusuf's arm. “You must - _you_ must to be able to love again - you -“

“I…” Yusuf begins, at a loss for the reason behind this sudden outburst of emotion. 

“Your heart is so generous, I can’t have -” Michael says, grasping at Yusuf's hands. “Tell me you can love again, Yusuf, please, you must -“

Yusuf reaches up and tears off the mask. 

Nicolò gapes up at him. He tries to scramble away, but Yusuf grabs his wrist and twists him around, slamming Nicolò's back into the wall and pinning him there with an arm across his chest. 

“You had to ruin this for me too?” Yusuf snarls. Nicolò struggles against his grip, breaths coming out in short, panicked gasps. “What you did, breaking my heart, wasn’t enough?”

Nicolò is still trying to squirm away, but Yusuf is tall enough that he can use his weight to keep him pinned with one arm and rifle through his pockets with the other. “You had to return to steal from me, Nicolò?” Yusuf asks. 

Nicolò gets both hands on Yusuf's shoulders and shoves him away just as Yusuf's hand closes around something in the inner pocket of his jacket. Yusuf stumbles back a few feet, grasping it tightly. 

“No,” Nicolò gasps, and reaches out, wrapping his hand around Yusuf's wrist and trying to uncurl his fingers. 

“Let _go,”_ Yusuf shouts, yanking back. 

Nicolò loses his grip and goes toppling to the ground. He stares up at Yusuf, taking great, deep, shuddering breaths. Yusuf looks down at what he has in his hand. It's an envelope.

Nicolò gets to his feet and starts sprinting away. Yusuf lets him. 

He looks down at the envelope in his hands and smoothes it out. It’s plain, unaddressed. 

He opens it. Inside is a fragile piece of paper, soft to the touch. It falls apart along one of the folds when Yusuf pulls it out. 

It’s Yusuf's last letter to him, the one where he confessed his love and asked Nicolò to marry him. Some of the words are faded and smudged; they have been traced over in new ink. 

He puts it back inside the envelope, numbly, and heads back to the ballroom. Booker is taller than most men, and Yusuf finds him easily. “Nicolò was here,” he says.

“What?” Booker says, glaring around at the crowd. “Where?”

“He’s gone,” Yusuf says. 

“Are you sure?” Booker hisses, hurrying him back to his rooms. 

***

“But he didn’t _say_ anything to you?” Lykon asks, for the tenth time.

“Nothing important,” Yusuf says, again. 

“Just, hold on,” Booker says, scrawling something else into his notebook. “He was surprised to see you? You’re sure?”

“He yelped,” Yusuf says. “He -”

They’re interrupted by a knock on the door. Lykon cracks it open, and slams it shut. 

“What?” Yusuf asks. 

“It’s Nile,” Lykon hisses. 

Yusuf massages his temples. Just what he needs. “Let her in,” he says, exhausted. 

Nile comes in, looking stunning in her green dress. Everything would be so much simpler if Yusuf could simply love her and forget all about Nicolò, but here they are. “Yusuf,” she says. “I have heard there was a disturbance. Was it...?”

“Yes,” Yusuf admits. 

“I see,” she says. “Well. Just so things are clear - as your friend, I am not going to hold you to something that has not even been officially agreed upon yet.”

Some of the tension leaves Yusuf's shoulders. “Thank you, Nile.”

“And, can I help?” She asks. “Perhaps with a fresh perspective, things might be more clear?”

Yusuf glanced at Booker and Lykon, who both shrug. “Alright,” he says. “Yes.”

They appraise her of the situation, and hand her the last letter from Nicolò to read. “Have you considered,” she asks, tapping it, “that this might have been written under duress?”

“Yes,” Yusuf says. “That was my first thought - but there’s no sign of that. It would have been so simple for him to give that away, and I searched for hours. I _wanted_ to find something, but I couldn’t.”

“Besides,” Booker adds. “We brought him here, and he didn’t say anything.” 

“Well,” Nile says. “I am baffled.”

“Oh,” Yusuf says, deflating a bit. 

“I think the only thing you can be sure of is that he was lying to you at some point. There doesn't seem to be cause to send this one to you if it isn’t genuine, but that doesn’t explain…” Her eyes cut to the envelope on the table, and Yusuf pushes down the urge to hide it. There is no reason for them to have to read it, thank goodness. 

“I should go,” Nile says. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help.” 

“Nile,” he says, grabbing her hand. “Whatever happens - you _are_ my friend.”

She nods. Once the door closes behind her, Yusuf takes a deep breath. “I need to talk to him,” he realizes. 

“He’s probably halfway out of the country by now,” Booker says gently. “You’ll never find him.”

“No,” Yusuf says. “I will.”

***

Nicolò could run, but he knows that Yusuf has his compass, so Yusuf thinks that he will not bother. He can be found, if Yusuf tries hard enough, so Nicolò must hope that Yusuf will not try. Sure enough, the compass points in a steady direction, and starts to swerve as they draw near the di Genova estate. 

“He’s here,” Yusuf says, snapping it shut when they arrive at the gates. 

“Alright,” Booker says. “Let’s go.”

Booker and Lykon stroll in ahead, announcing him. Yusuf’s only job is to look suitably royal and intimidating. They are led into the parlor where the lady of the house and her two daughters are sitting. “Your highness,” they say - technically wrong, but Yusuf is not going to remark on that. He casts a critical eye over the room - it’s a modest place, but well kept. The chimney, he sees, has been recently resurfaced. “I am looking,” Yusuf says slowly. “For Nicolò di Genova.”

They are not gifted with subtlety - they shoot conspiratorial looks at each other. 

“We haven’t seen Nicolò in -”

Yusuf is out of patience. “Call out the servants.”

“I -” Lady di Genova says. 

“Something wrong?” Booker asks.

“Of course not,” she says. “I’ll call out the servants.”

They call them out into the main hall, lining up in order of seniority. Yusuf nods to Lykon and Booker, and they move through the lines, returning to him and shaking their heads. 

Yusuf sighs, and pulls out the compass. He stops before he opens it, thinking of the chimney, and the new tiles on the floor in the main hall, Nicolò telling him that he would not like the pattern. 

He looks down at what is beneath his feet, finding that Nicolò was right, and the alternating red and blue tiles do look garish. 

The first time Nicolò wrote Yusuf a new letter before having received a response to his last one it had been because he had finally found a hiding place that he could still squeeze into. The whole letter had been a description of where it was and how it worked, and at the end he had said _I am sure it seems very silly to you that I am this excited, but I am so relieved to find a refuge, and only have you to tell._

Yusuf had been endlessly charmed by it. 

He pockets the compass and starts working his way through the building. Once he finds the study he walks down the hall, examining the wallpaper on the paneling. Eventually he stops in front of one with a prominent blemish above one of the roses. A hole, big enough to hook a finger through from the inside. 

He presses firmly to the right of it, and the panel buckles and pops out of the wall. 

Yusuf moves it aside. “Hello, Nicolò,” he says. 

Nicolò shrinks back further into the tiny space. 

“Come,” Yusuf says, holding out his hand. Nicolò whimpers but takes his hand and steps out of the wall. 

They end up in the study, Yusuf pulling the door firmly shut to give them some semblance of privacy. Nicolò tries to sink to his knees, but Yusuf shakes his head and guides him to sit in the chair in front of the desk instead. 

Yusuf leans back against the desk and looks at him. _What happened to you?_ He wants to ask. A year ago this man tried to bluff his way into a royal wedding that he wasn’t invited to, challenged and pushed back against Yusuf whenever he felt the urge, and now he can’t even meet his gaze. Yusuf pushes down the part of him that is aching to go to him and studies him critically. 

He washed the dye from his hair, and tried to chop it shorter. As though he means to pretend he wasn’t at the palace last night. As though Yusuf does not have the proof of it in an envelope in his pocket. 

He’s far too thin. His shirt hangs off of his diminished frame, and Yusuf can see a thick purple bruise at his wrist, where he gripped it last night. None of the other servants looked this worn through, though Yusuf will be sure to take another look before he leaves. 

Yusuf folds his arms. “That letter was a trick,” he says. “There was no one else, no scheme.”

Nicolò nods. It is very tempting, especially seeing Nicolò like this, to imagine that someone put him up to it, but Yusuf knows, as he did when he first read it, that that isn’t the case. “Your trick.” How many times had Yusuf written that he felt too young, too inexperienced, too impulsive? Nicolò knew exactly how to cut him deeply, and he had. “You wanted it to hurt? Bad enough that I wouldn’t want to see you again.”

“Yusuf, please,” Nicolò whispers. 

“Answer me,” Yusuf says. “I think you owe me the truth, at least.”

“Yes,” Nicolò says. “I did it.”

“Why?”

“I was afraid,” Nicolò says quickly. “Yusuf -“

“Because of… whatever is happening, here?”

“Please,” Nicolò moans. “Don’t ask me about it, I can’t - it isn’t -“

“Fine,” Yusuf says. “I will not ask about that.” He sinks to his knees between Nicolò’s legs and presses his palm to Nicolò’s cheek. The bones are too close to the surface of his skin, and Yusuf can’t keep pretending that he doesn’t still feel the urge to be tender to him. “Will you please look at me?” he asks. 

Nicolò exhales shakily and turns his head, meeting Yusuf's eyes with his own watery ones. “Why did you come to the palace last night?” Yusuf asks. 

“I just wanted to see you,” Nicolò whispers. “Just to see. I didn’t mean to run into you.”

Yusuf nods. “I believe you. And why were you still carrying my letter?”

Nicolò makes a hurt sound in the back of his throat. Yusuf waits him out, stroking his thumb along the thin skin of his cheek. “It's all I had left,” Nicolò finally says.

Yusuf nods and reaches into his own pocket, pulling it out. Nicolò’s eyes widen, and from this close Yusuf can feel the sharp puff of air he lets out as his fingers twitch toward it, before he aborts the movement. “Take it,” Yusuf says. “It’s yours. I meant every word.”

Nicolò takes it, hands shaking. 

“I am very, very, angry with you,” Yusuf tells him. “You hurt me terribly.”

Nicolò nods, hunching his shoulders.

“But I still mean it,” Yusuf says in a rush. “Marry me, Nicolò.”

The letter drops from his hands as Nicolò gasps. He grasps Yusuf’s shoulders, digging his fingers in. 

“We can still be happy, I know it. We can find a way. Just say that you’ll marry me,” Yusuf pleads. 

Nicolò claps his hands over his mouth and starts to jerk, whole body heaving forward in spasms. Like he’s going to be sick. 

“What is it?” Yusuf asks, alarmed. “What’s - Nicolò -”

The doors to the study burst open just as one of his spasms takes him out of the chair. Booker and Lykon and Nicolò’s family swarm in. 

“What’s going on?” Booker asks. 

“Marry him, Nicolò,” Lady di Genova says. 

“Yes!” One of the sisters puts in. “Then give us all your money!”

“He’s choking,” Yusuf says, leaning over him. “He’s -” Nicolò screams from behind his hands when Yusuf tries to pry them away from his face, and Yusuf pulls back, startled. 

“Nicolò, _just say that you’ll marry him_ ,” Lady di Genova says.

Nicolò spasms again, whole face red. “Nicolò,” Yusuf whispers. Not knowing what else to do, he puts a hand on Nicolò’s chest, just over his heart. 

Their eyes meet - Nicolò’s are full of tears. And then they blaze, and he wrenches his hands away and surges to his feet, knocking Yusuf’s hand away, and he shouts, “No!”

Yusuf sucks in a huge breath of relief. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Lady di Genova says. “Nicolò, marry the king.”

“No!” Nicolò shouts again, snatching up a poker from the fireplace, and holding it menacingly. “I’ll die first.”

His relief turns to bitter, bitter disappointment and humiliation. Well. Yusuf wanted answers, and that is certainly a definitive one. Not one that he shouldn’t have expected, either. He picks himself up, trying not to look like he would rather die himself than be here in this room. He tries not to look at Booker and Lykon. 

“Relax,” Lykon says to Nicolò soothingly, though his tight grip on Yusuf’s arm is anything but.

“I won’t,” Nicolò says, swinging around to face them. “I won’t marry him.”

“We get it,” Booker says, shooting an apologetic glance at Yusuf. “Message received. Put down the poker.”

“I -” Nicolò blinks, and looks at the poker in his hand. “I won’t marry him.”

“Would you _please_ stop saying that?” Yusuf asks. “Once was more than enough, I assure you.” He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, to stem the tears that are threatening to spill over. He breathes deeply and forces himself to think less like a jilted lover. “In any case, you’re coming back to the palace for the time being, until I can start an investigation into what is going on here. Why you’ve been mistreated.”

“We would _never_ ,” Lady di Genova says. “Nicolò, tell them we treat you well.”

Nicolò tilts his head consideringly. “No?” he says. He starts laughing. “No!” he says. “No, No!”

“Enough,” Yusuf says. “Nicolò, collect your things - we’re leaving.”

“No!” Nicolò says, still laughing, but he turns towards Yusuf and sobers at the sight of him. 

“Oh,” he says. “Yusuf…” the poker drops from his hand and clatters on the ground. Yusuf flinches at the sound. He’s just one raw nerve. 

Nicolò steps toward him, arm outstretched, but Booker steps up. “Back off,” he says. 

Nicolò stops. “Yusuf?” He says. “Can I explain?”

“We understand perfectly well, you don’t want to marry him,” Lykon says. He is only trying to be a good friend, but Yusuf really wishes people would stop fixating on that particular point. 

“No, I do, I - but I can’t. Because of my curse.”

“Curse?”

“To be obedient. Always, always - any command that is given to me, I-“

“Oh, please,” Lykon scoffs. “Stop lying.”

“No! I -“

“You expect us to believe that, after this display?”

“It just broke,” Nicolò says. 

“Oh, it _just_ broke,” Booker says, rolling his eyes. “Very convenient.”

“Yusuf, think back,” Nicolò pleads. “When have I ever not done as you told me?”

“All the time,” Yusuf says. “You didn’t bring me back -“

“Only because I convinced you to demand something else instead,” Nicolò says. “I - remember when you told me to lay next to you?”

Yusuf frowns. He does remember - Nicolò had been so angry the next day, had said he was _made to do it._ He didn’t want to stay with Yusuf after the bandits, but Yusuf had demanded he stay, and Nicolò had. He’d told him to write, and Nicolò had. He remembers asking to kiss Nicolò, and Nicolò looking afraid. Yusuf swallows down a sudden wave of nausea. “The… the sketch I did of you?” Yusuf says. 

“Well, I would have let you if you asked, but yes,” Nicolò says quietly. “Don’t you see, I can’t marry you. What if someone finds out? Eventually, somebody always does. They could tell me to kill you. They could make me hurt you, betray you. You would - you would never be safe. Never. And I would do anything, _anything_ , to keep you safe.”

“But _you_ were the one that hurt me,” Yusuf says. “That betrayed me.”

Nicolò looks stricken. “Yes,” he says. “You wrote me, telling me everything I - and I was so overcome with joy that I wrote back without thinking. And then I realized my mistake, but I knew - I knew you would come find me if I said I changed my mind, or if I tried to run. And I couldn’t take the chance.”

“Hmm,” Yusuf says, and walks out of the study. He keeps walking until he ends up outside. He presses his face into his horse’s neck, overwhelmed. 

Booker and Lykon come out a few minutes later, Nicolò in tow. He looks very small, between them. “Yusuf,” he whispers. “Yusuf -“

“Ready?” Yusuf asks, mounting up. 

Booker and Lykon follow suit, and Nicolò wraps his arms around himself and looks down at the ground. 

The journey back to the palace is slow to allow Nicolò to follow along on foot, several yards behind them. Lykon keeps turning around to look at him. After several minutes of this Lykon sighs and reins up his horse, slipping off and walking back to Nicolò. He takes off his own shoes and hands them over, tossing the ones Nicolò was wearing off the side of the road. 

“What,” he says, as he gets back into the saddle. “I feel bad. They were just rags.”

Yusuf glances back at him, tugging on Lykon’s shoes. The rest of his clothes aren’t that much better. “You think he’s telling the truth.'' Yusuf says. 

“This is all… very strange,” Booker says. “But. It answers every question you had.”

“He should have told me,” Yusuf says. 

“I didn’t say they were all good answers,” Booker says. “Just that they made sense.”

Yusuf glances backs at him, lacing up the boots, and lets out a frustrated shout, sliding off his own horse. Nicolò scrambles to get to his feet when Yusuf stalks back to him.

“I am still,” Yusuf growls, _“so angry_ with you.”

Nicolò nods rapidly. “Yes, yes, I -“

“But will you _please_ kiss me?”

Nicolò lunges forward and kisses him, desperately. His mouth is clumsy, pressing against Yusuf’s with no skill. Yusuf was saving his first kiss for something special, and it's perfect. It’s absolutely perfect. 

“I love you,” Nicolò gasps, like it’s torn out of him, hands shaking against Yusuf's face. “My curse broke for you, because I love you. I love you. I’m so sorry.”

Yusuf presses kisses to every inch of his face, his nose, his forehead, the precious jut of his jaw. He feels insane, unmoored, like he’ll fly apart if he has to take his lips away from Nicolò’s skin. 

Nicolò trembles against him, on the ride back to the palace. He keeps stroking his fingers down the arm Yusuf has wrapped around his middle, and shudders each time Yusuf ducks his head to press his lips to the tender skin behind Nicolò’s ear, and brings Yusuf's hand up to his lips to press kisses to to his fingertips, over and over again.

Yusuf had hoped to arrive back inconspicuously, but his mother is waiting for them the moment they step out of the stables. “Imagine my surprise,” she says, icily, “When Nile told me we could not move forward with negotiating her marriage contract, because you had ridden off after the man who broke your heart.”

From behind her shoulder, Nile winces. 

Nicolò takes a step back. Yusuf places a hand in the small of his back, for support, and says, “Mama, this is Nicolò.”

She turns her furious gaze on Nicolò, who flinches. “Well,” she says, after a moment. “I had thought I would slap you, for what you did to my son. But I suppose that should wait until you have eaten something. Yusuf - I will want an explanation.”

Yusuf nods, and she disappears, Nile trailing off behind her, and Yusuf brings him to one of the guest rooms that they keep outfitted. Nicolò looks odd, inside - the ragged, dirty nature of his clothes is more visible against the clean linens that cover the furniture. “I’ll get someone to bring you some clothes,” Yusuf tells him. 

“Thank you,” Nicolò says. He places a hand on the bed frame, just briefly. “I did hurt you,” he says. “Many times now. You _are_ angry.”

“Yes,” Yusuf says. 

“Do you want me to leave?” Nicolò asks. “I would, right now, if that’s what you wanted.”

“No,” Yusuf says, but hesitates. “I -“

“Perhaps it would be best, if I left after the investigation you mentioned.”

Yusuf wants to say no - he still wants to kiss him, to hold him. But that impulse also feels wild, and out of his control. Unsafe. 

Nicolò reads his silence and nods. “That is what I shall do, and I’ll keep out of your way while I am here. But may I write to you?”

“Write?”

“Yes,” Nicolò says, smiling. 

“Alright,” Yusuf says. “Yes.”

He was expecting Nicolò to write after he left, but the next day there is a letter waiting for him on his desk in a familiar scrawl. 

Yusuf,

I realize I did not tell you I meant to write immediately, so I apologize if this is unwelcome. I am sure you will find some way of letting me know, if this is not appropriate. 

I wanted you to know that you never made me do anything against my will. It occurred to me that you might not know that, and that you might worry. It is true that I did not initially wish to have you come with me, but that was only because I am cautious of allowing anyone too close to me. In only a day I was grateful for your company. When you told me to lay beside you, I was angry for the reason I told you, but mostly because I was ashamed of how much I liked feeling close to you. Worried, that I was not protecting myself enough. It was very complicated. But my feelings about you never were. 

\- Nicolò 

Yusuf bites his lip. 

Nicolò, 

Thank you for telling me.

\- Yusuf 

He receives another one a few days later. 

Yusuf,

I am afraid of your mother. 

I am sure that doesn’t surprise you. 

We passed each other in the hall and she gave me a look that made me shake. And then she asked me why I still looked so thin, and brought me into the kitchen and pressed a bowl of soup into my hands, and threatened to stand over me until I finished it all. In the end I had to tell her she made me too nervous to eat. She looked deeply disappointed, and left. I was very embarrassed. 

\- Nicolò

Yusuf finds himself smiling, but not really sure what to write in response, so he doesn’t. 

Nicolò keeps sending him letters, and occasionally Yusuf will write back to him, just a sentence or two. They remain friendly and somewhat impersonal, only about Nicolò and what he is doing. So he is not at all prepared for when Nicolò writes:

Yusuf,

I had no idea how much of an artist you were. Nile took me on a tour of the palace, to show me some of your pieces. 

They were so beautiful. 

I have no eye for art, but I could see that they were beautiful, full of so many colors, so bright. Nile tried to tell me things about your style, about your brushwork, but all I could think of was you, and the way that you must have looked painting them. You smudged your cheek, when you sketched me; I don’t think you even noticed. As I stood in front of your paintings all I could think about is whether you would have smudged the paint onto your hands, onto your face. Whether some might end up in your hair. 

I imagine it would be simple to clean your own hands, and maybe even your face. But what about your hair? Would you need someone to help you? Would you need someone to lean over you as you bathe, and pour water over your hair, sift fingers through your curls, searching for any missed paint? Does it ever get caught in your hairline? Do you need a gentle hand to rub it away?

You like to use blue, in your paintings. How you must look, with that color streaked across your skin, and in your hair. 

\- Nicolò

Someone bangs on his door. “Yusuf?” Nicolò shouts through it, sounding hysterical. “Yusuf, don’t - don’t read the letter I just sent,”

Yusuf drops it and crosses to the door, shutting it as soon as Nicolò is inside and crowding him up against the wood. “You cannot,” Yusuf growls, “Just send me a letter like that, Nicolò.” And then he kisses him, hungrily. 

“I couldn’t help it,” Nicolò gasps, when Yusuf draws back for a breath. “I saw you in the gardens yesterday. Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?”

“Tell me,” Yusuf says, and kisses him again.

“No,” Nicolò says with a grin when Yusuf pulls back again - his reflexive response to a command now, Booker and Lykon tell him. Even when he doesn't mean it. “Your mouth,” Nicolò says, rubbing his thumb against it. “Always smiling.”

“Not always,” Yusuf says, leaning down to demonstrate. 

Nicolò moans, and bites down on Yusuf's lip. Yusuf groans and surges forward, knocking Nicolò’s head back against the door. Nicolò hisses, and that sound jerks Yusuf back into reality. He wrenches away. “Wait,” he says against Nicolò's neck. “Wait, we -“

Nicolò sighs, but loosens his grip on Yusuf’s hair. “I am,” he pants. “Very bad at thinking through the letters I send you.”

Yusuf pushes himself away from the door. “I gave you a command, just then,” he says. “Without even thinking about it.”

“Three,” Nicolò says, moving his hand down to his shoulder.

Yusuf thinks back, and nods. “I can see why you were afraid.”

“Not of you,” Nicolò says. “Of myself.”

Yusuf nods. He kisses Nicolò again, close-mouthed. “Stay here,” he says. “After the investigation is concluded. Stay at the palace.”

“Oh,” Nicolò says. 

“Do you not want to?” Yusuf asks, suddenly shy. Is he making him uncomfortable because he keeps phrasing things as orders, even now?

“I planned to visit Quỳnh and Andromache,” Nicolò says. 

“Of course,” Yusuf says. He brushes Nicolò’s hair away from his face. He looks much better now. He’s still too thin, but there’s a healthy pink flush to his cheeks. He looks more like the man that saved Yusuf in the woods. “Of course you should do that. But come back, after.”

Nicolò kisses him. “I will,” he whispers. “I will.”

He does not see much of Nicolò the next few weeks, as he spends most of his time with the investigators. Yusuf receives reports summarizing his testimony, though he does not read them - he can only imagine that it is horrible, as his mother receives the same reports and softens towards Nicolò considerably (though that is helped, Yusuf notes, by the fact that he assures her that he still intends to give Nile a position in his court).

Nicolò sends him letters from the road, and when he is with Andromache and Quỳnh. They grow ever more fervent, and Yusuf finds that he does not grow tired of it.

Yusuf,

Andromache and Quỳnh have grown tired of watching me stare off into the distance as my thoughts, inevitably, turn to you. Andromache has given me an ultimatum: to stop thinking about you, or to leave them in peace. I hope you have little doubt as to which of those I have picked. 

As I return to you, it has occurred to me that you have asked me to marry you twice now, and I have spurned you each time. I think it is only fair that I try to even that count. 

Yusuf, my love. You are the most handsome man I have ever seen. You are kind, and compassionate. You are clever. You saved me. I do not know what I have to offer a man such as you. I am a decent fighter, though I’m sure you have plenty of those. I try to be thoughtful. I try to be kind.

Besides that, the only thing I have to recommend myself is that I love you. Booker gave me a volume of your poetry, and the raw honesty in it made me weep, and here I am, writing the only truth that I have, knowing it is far from adequate: I love you. 

Marry me? 

\- Nicolò

P.S. Have you considered putting in some Giant benches around the grounds? I am sure they would appreciate it. Perhaps in places where the bedrock is near the surface, so you do not have to lay more foundation? 

Yusuf puts the letter in his pocket, and goes to find his mother. She is outside, talking to the chief engineer of the giants, overseeing their progress. She looks up as Yusuf approaches. 

“I love him,” Yusuf tells her. “I am ready to marry him.”

“Well,” she says, and purses her lips. She is still disappointed about not having Nile as her daughter-in-law, though Nile herself seems very happy overseeing the upkeep of the grounds and, Yusuf believes, engaging in a dalliance with one of the hostelers. “He seems nice enough. When he returns, I will speak with him.”

Yusuf pulls her into a hug that lifts her off of her feet. She protests, but when Yusuf sets her down she is smiling. “Go on,” she says. “I imagine you have a letter to write.”

“I do,” Yusuf says, laughing. He has no address for Nicolò as he travels, so he has been leaving his responses piled up on Nicolò’s desk in the guest room, for him to open when he returns. The size of the pile would embarrass him, were it not for the very large box Yusuf needed to secure, to hold the ones from Nicolò. And for the letter-shaped box that appeared recently beside Nicolò’s bed, secured with a lock. “I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I... I really intended this resolution to be quicker... easier... neater... more painless...
> 
> But, I am who I am 🥺


	5. Wedding Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have a wedding epilogue!

It is the night before his wedding, and Nicolò cannot sleep. 

He tosses and turns, and throws off the bedsheets. He stands up and lights a lamp, opens up the chest of letters that Yusuf sends him. But try as he might he cannot draw comfort from Yusuf’s beautiful words. 

Nicolò has slept in his own apartments the past few weeks. He had been the one to insist on it, when Yusuf’s guests started arriving. Not out of a sense of propriety, but because he thought it would make the moment they no longer had separate rooms all the more sweeter, and he has been right. He has been breathless with anticipation at the thought of placing his personal effects on the new bedside table that appeared beside Yusuf’s bed last week. Nicolò had picked it a few months ago, but hadn’t been prepared for how he felt when he saw it be moved in. Yusuf watched with him, arms wrapped around Nicolò’s middle and chin hooked over Nicolò’s shoulder. They had both swallowed hard, when it slotted into place.

He throws open the doors to his closet. Inside is his wedding suit, sleek and elegant, a light gray that Nile assures him will flatter his eyes. 

Nicolò pinches the cuff of it between his thumb and forefinger - it’s soft to the touch, as Nicolò knew it would be, but he jerks his hand away as though scalded.

He goes back to the table and tries again to distract himself with Yusuf’s letters, but it is no use. He slips on a robe and makes his way to Yusuf’s apartments. The guards at the door let him enter. 

His Yusuf is a heavy sleeper. He does not stir as Nicolò approaches his bedside. His mouth is slightly open - he would be hoarse come morning. Nicolò places a finger beneath his chin and directs it closed, gently. 

Not gently enough. Yusuf stirs, and paws at Nicolò’s hand, and smiles when he realizes who it is. “Nicolò?” he slurs. “Is it time already?”

He sounds so ecstatic. “No,” Nicolò whispers, heart high in his throat. “It’s still night.”

“Couldn’t stay away?” Yusuf asks. He brings his hand up to his eyes, rubbing some of the sleep away. He takes hold of Nicolò’s hand, squeezing gently. 

“Yusuf,” Nicolò says. “What if - what if we didn’t get married?”

“Hmm?” Yusuf hums. 

“What if,” Nicolò says. “What if we didn’t get married, tomorrow.”

Yusuf does not move for a long moment before pulling himself into a sitting position. “What?” he asks. He does not let go of Nicolò’s hand, but that only makes Nicolò feel worse. 

“We - we don’t need to be married,” Nicolò says. “We’re not going to have children, so what does it matter? I can just be your consort, as I am now. We’re happy, aren’t we? You know I love you?”

Yusuf stares at him, expression impossible to make out in the dark - a cold comfort. “You... you asked me to marry you,” he says.

“I know,” Nicolò says. “I know, I know.”

“Nicolò, it’s _tomorrow_ ,” Yusuf says. 

“But,” Nicolò begins, and then it bursts out of him. “But what if it happens again?”

“What -”

“What if it happens to us like Andromache and Quỳnh?” Nicolò asks, trembling. “What if we - Yusuf -”

“Oh,” Yusuf says, and then: “Come here.”

The urge to fall into his arms is intense, but Nicolò steps back. He can do that now, but for how much longer?

Yusuf sighs, and starts to get out of bed. 

“No,” Nicolò says, backing away. If Yusuf holds him, Nicolò will forget to be afraid. 

Yusuf stands but doesn’t close the distance between them, lighting up the lamp at his bedside. “I have thought about this, you know,” Yusuf says. “I thought you would have too.” 

Nicolò flushes. “You…” he says. “You considered it?”

“Of course I did,” Yusuf says. “Why do you think I insisted that Andromache and Quỳnh come here so early?”

“I - “ Nicolò begins, flummoxed. Andromache and Quỳnh have been at the palace for months, ostensibly to help Nicolò prepare in lieu of family. Mostly they have been racing on horseback through the palace grounds and surrounding countryside with Lykon, enjoying themselves immensely. “Because they are my dearest friends?”

“Well yes, that too.” Yusuf says. “But I hoped you would let them help you, if you weren’t going to allow me.” 

Nicolò flushes. All those long hours promising Yusuf that he wouldn’t withdraw when things became difficult, that they would face things together, and he has been doing exactly that the past few days. “I didn’t mean -”

“You came,” Yusuf says, pulling on a robe and sitting down on the sofa, the space next to him open and inviting. It is the sweetest trap - Nicolò forces himself to ignore that and concentrate. 

“If you considered it, why didn’t you call it off?” Nicolò asks. 

“Because I want to marry you,” Yusuf says calmly. 

“But it isn’t worth the risk, it won’t _change_ anything,” Nicolò says. “I already love you, and we are together - no one will blink if we do not have separate rooms.”

“But we wouldn’t be married.”

“Stop being obtuse,” Nicolò shouts. He doesn't want to be spending the night before his wedding shouting at the man that he loves, but now that he has started he cannot seem to stop. “You have no idea what it’s like to live like that. To live like Andromache and Quỳnh. And you want to risk that, for - for what? For a change in _terminology_?”

“Nicolò,” Yusuf says, infuriatingly patient. “Why did you ask me to marry you?”

“Clearly because I wasn’t thinking,” Nicolò shouts. 

His words echo back at him from around the room, and Nicolò crumples. “I’m sorry, he says quickly. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Yusuf, I love you. And it’s not that I don’t want to marry you, I just -“ he can feel a humiliating sting prickling in his eyes. “ _God_ , Yusuf, I’m so scared.”

“I know, love,” Yusuf says. “Will you please come sit with me?”

There are very few things more difficult to resist than Yusuf asking him gently for something. And it is not as though Nicolò wants to deny him. He sits down next to him, allowing Yusuf to tuck Nicolò’s face into his neck. “It could happen,” Nicolò says. “It happened to me already because of my mother’s family, and you are a king. The thought of you, trapped, because of me - that you would resent me -“

“I wouldn’t resent you,” Yusuf says. 

“You have _no_ idea,” Nicolò says vehemently. “You didn’t see what it did to Andromache and Quỳnh. They hated each other, sometimes.”

“You misunderstand me,” Yusuf says gently. “I know something like that would be awful. But I would not regret choosing to make you my husband. That is what I will be doing tomorrow, saying that I don’t care what the future brings. This, you, _Nicolò_ \- this is who I will be facing it with. And I will never regret that choice, no matter how difficult that future might be.”

“But we _are_ committed to each other,” Nicolò says. “It’s still only words that are changing.” 

Yusuf doesn’t say anything, and Nicolò stares at their clasped hands, feeling terrible for matching Yusuf's beautiful declarations with an argument. “I’m sorry,” Nicolò offers. “I want to feel as you do. I just…”

Yusuf kisses Nicolò’s forehead. “We have different perspectives,” he says. “It is alright that you are thinking of it in a different way.”

“I’m so sorry,” Nicolò says. “I know this is the worst possible time to be bringing this up.”

“It could be worse!” Yusuf says, with forced cheer. “You might have done it in front of the cleric.”

That is true, but not a comfort. Nicolò does not know what to say. 

Do you want to call it off?” Yusuf asks eventually. 

“I don’t know,” Nicolò whispers. “Can I - can I sleep here tonight?”

“Of course,” Yusuf says easily. “And tomorrow, too, no matter what.”

Yusuf is too good, too kind, too wonderful. It is easy to forget sometimes, because he can be grumpy and silly, like any other man. Nicolò loves him. He only wishes he was sure that is enough.

In the morning Nicolò wakes up to an empty bed. Before he can start to fret, Yusuf comes in, bearing breakfast. 

“Good morning,” he says cheerfully, perching at the end of the bed and setting the tray down on top of the covers.

Nicolò sits up, pulling his knees up to his chest, feeling subdued at the image of Yusuf awake and lively in the morning, an inverse from their typical dynamic. “Good morning,” he echoes. 

“I’ve been thinking, and you’re right,” Yusuf says. “We don’t need to be married, it is only a change in title and terminology. We should call it off.”

Nicolò blinks. “What?”

“There is no real point to it,” Yusuf says. “We are doing it because it is the done thing, and not because it is right for us.”

“But…” Nicolò begins cautiously. “You - you want it. You want a marriage.”

Yusuf nods. “I do. But, Nicolò. Marrying you would be the most joyous moment of my life. And if it would not be the same for you I have no interest in it.” With that he picks up a slice of apple and pops it into his mouth, shrugging.

Nicolò stares at him. Yusuf raises his eyebrows as he chews, swallows, and asks: “What?”

“Please tell me,” Nicolò says, voice shaking. He thinks his whole body might be shaking too, but that’s more difficult to tell, when he suddenly feels as light as air. “That you did not already talk to Emna about this.”

“Of course not,” Yusuf says. “I do love you, and do not wish to see you come to any harm, but you can be the one to break the news to her.”

“I will not,” Nicolò says. 

“Well, _I_ am not going to be the one to tell her,” Yusuf mutters. 

“I _will not_ ,” Nicolò repeats.

Yusuf catches his meaning, and his gaze softens. “Nicolò,” he says. “Do not, on my account.”

“No,” Nicolò says, and fists a hand into Yusuf’s shirt to tug him close enough to kiss him, fiercely, over the breakfast tray. The dishes clatter and overturn, and Yusuf makes a startled noise against his mouth before opening up for him, never failing to let Nicolò be greedy, never failing to match him. For two years Nicolò has been sure of Yusuf’s love for him, and he is still overwhelmed by the way Yusuf responds to his touch.

“I will not let the fear of some fairies keep me from the most joyous moment of _my_ life,” Nicolò tells him.

“The most joyous moment?” Yusuf laughs, between kisses. “I thought. That would be when your curse broke?”

“It has been,” Nicolò says. “But not for much longer. It could not compare to being yours.”

“Nicolò,” Yusuf breathes, shocked.

“I need,” Nicolò says, “I need to get ready.” He pulls away from Yusuf’s grasping hands and stumbles out of the bed, pulling on his robe. 

“Wait,” Yusuf gasps. Nicolò turns to him. Yusuf is breathing hard, and one of his sleeves is red with jam. “Are you sure?”

Nicolò’s heart swells. “I am still afraid of what might come after,” he admits. “But I want that moment with you.”

“Then,” Yusuf says, beginning to smile. “Then I will see you in a few hours.”

“Yes,” Nicolò says.

The rest of the morning passes in a blur. Nicolò bathes, and his hair is neatened and trimmed, his nails carefully buffed. Andromache and Quỳnh join him when it is time for him to get dressed.

“You look very handsome,” Quỳnh tells him, tugging on his jacket to make sure it is straight.

“Thank you,” Nicolò says. “Have you finally decided which of you is walking with me?” He had found it impossible to choose and had left it up to them, but that had not been the best idea in terms of expediency.

“I am,” Quỳnh says, smiling sharply at Andromache, who huffs and crosses her arms. “If she wanted to win arguments with me she should have broken the curse instead of leaving it to me.”

“Alright,” Nicolò says, turning to Andromache to embrace her one more time. Her affection was mostly expressed through teaching him how to defend himself, drilling him ruthlessly until she was satisfied. But she’s also always held him for as long as he needs, always let him cling. “Thank you for being here for me,” he says. 

She tightens her grip on him for a moment. “We’ll always be there for you if you _ask_.”

Nicolò nods. 

As they pull apart Nicolò sees tears beginning to well in her eyes, to his horror. 

“Oh don’t, please,” he tries. 

Andromache manages something like a laugh, wiping her eyes. “Don’t tell me what to do, Nicolò,” she says, before disappearing out of the door. 

Quỳnh steps up next to him and takes his hand. “Are you ready?”

“I think so,” he tells her. 

“You _think_ so?” Quỳnh asks. 

“I’m worried about the fairies,” Nicolò confesses. “I worry I’m being foolish. Tempting fate. Would you - if you could go back and not get married, would you?”

Quỳnh looks at their reflections in the mirror for a long moment before turning him to face her and taking his other hand. “That’s not a useful question, so I’m not going to answer it. There is no guarantee that comes from marriage. You could be cursed today, or one of you could fall ill tomorrow. Or, you could have long happy lives together. Understand?”

Nicolò nods slowly. “I want to be married.”

“Good! Now come down here,” Quỳnh says, thumping his chest. 

Nicolò laughs, and obliges, bending at the waist to allow Quỳnh to kiss his cheeks, ghost lips over his forehead. “Thank you,” he whispers.

Their wedding is in the Great Hall, newly outfitted to accommodate the party from Giant Country. Yusuf was so proud of his work, and Nicolò was happy to wait to be married until the visitor’s quarters were completed. Nicolò focuses on them, not the delegation of fairies clustered together at the front of the hall, on the steady pressure of Quỳnh’s hand. He focuses on Yusuf, waiting for him before the cleric. He’s wearing a bright white kaftan, but he shines far more brightly than clothes ever could. He raises his eyebrows as Nicolò approaches. _Still alright?_ he is asking, and Nicolò feels the last of his anxieties slide away. He nods.

Nicolò tries his best to listen to the cleric, but he is preoccupied with the feel of Yusuf’s palm against his own. He is only pulled out when it is time for their vows.

“Nicolò,” Yusuf begins. “I love you. You have written yourself into every aspect of my life, with your unfailing kindness and your unending strength. You color every one of my thoughts. When I think back on the times before I knew you, your absence casts a gray pall over those memories. I love seeing you, and speaking with you. I fear that I will never be able to give you even a fraction of the kindness and love that you give to me, but I promise to never stop trying. To always strive to be the kind of man that you deserve.”

Nicolò wants to shake his head, tell Yusuf to stop being so obviously wrong about who is the better man, but that has not worked when he has said so in private, when they are curled around each other in the dark, and he doubts that he could win that argument here. 

Instead, he squeezes Yusuf’s hands and looks into his eyes. “Yusuf, before I knew you I was directionless. I had no idea what I would need to be happy. You…” He can feel his eyes beginning to well up, and he bites the inside of his cheek. “You taught me how to hope for a better future. Loving you gave me my life.”

Nicolò takes a deep breath. “I promise to cherish the time we have together. To never take our love for granted. To do whatever I can to fill your life with joy, and love.”

That is the end of what he had prepared and memorized, but he adds, for Yusuf’s ears alone: “The most joyous moment.”

Yusuf’s eyes are shining. Nicolò will have to apologize to the cleric later, because he cannot concentrate on anything other than Yusuf’s smile.

Their first kiss as a married couple would be disappointing if it were under any other circumstance. Nicolò does not have the composure to do anything other than lay a hand on Yusuf’s hip. Yusuf manages a bit more, placing a hand on Nicolò’s jaw, but they only press their lips together. 

“I love you,” Nicolò whispers.

They walk hand in hand down the aisle, but before they make it past the first row they are halted by a soft voice saying Nicolò’s name. 

Nicolò turns. Yusuf’s hand spasms. 

One of the fairies is standing out a little further in front of the rest. It is not Lucinda, Nicolò notes idly. She looks kind.

“Nicolò,” she repeats. “We would like to offer you a gift.” 

Yusuf’s grip tightens. Nicolò squeezes back. “I thank you for the honor,” he says. “I never met my husband’s father - he was taken too quickly, from just a simple cold after being caught in the rain. I humbly ask for some small means, to keep my mother-in-law from a similar fate.”

The fairy smiles, and holds out her hands. Cloth cascades out of the air. It looks like wool, but when Nicolò takes it it feels lighter than the finest silk. “This cloak will keep the wearer warm and dry in any weather,” she says. 

“Thank you,” Nicolò says, bowing low. “We will cherish it.”

The fairies let Yusuf pass without further comment, so Nicolò takes the few steps forward to Emna and hands the cloak to her. They move through the rest of the aisles without further incident, but the moment they step into the hallway Yusuf tugs him into an alcove. “Are you all right?” he asks. 

Nicolò nods and throws his arm around Yusuf, pulling him close for a few moments. Yusuf squeezes him tight in return. 

“Come on,” Nicolò says, pulling back. We have our reception to get to.”

“ _Our_ guests to greet,” Yusuf says, grinning. 

“ _Our_ marriage to consumate.”

Yusuf slaps a hand over his heart and gasps, playing at being scandalized. “ _Nicolò!”_

Nicolò giggles. On this of all days he should try to comport himself with more dignity, but Yusuf had always made him feel giddy and carefree. “Well?” he asks, taking Yusuf's hand. “Shall we?”

Yusuf brings their hands up to press his smile to their tangled fingers. “Lead the way,” he says. “My husband.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you were expecting this epilogue to be nothing but flufffff I am sorry 🥺

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr](https://deanniker-wastingtime.tumblr.com/) losing control of my life, if that's something you're into.


End file.
